


Let's Fight a Revolution with Flowers in our Hair

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire finds love neither in the body of a beautiful girl nor in the hues of the summer sky, but in the hands and the heart of a revolutionary named Bahorel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aquiantances

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I started writing Jehan/Bahorel headcanons that somehow snowballed into a cohesive ~30k word fic that still isn't finished. I'll be updating at weird times because I'm still editing/cutting the hell out of it but I hope to get this fic up in full pretty soon. I wouldn't even post this but there's only three fics of this pairing on ao3 and wow what a shame.
> 
> But let's be real I'm not actually smart enough to write Jehan/Bahorel that well(all dat history and romanticism that is lost on me oh gosh) but I hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it regardless!
> 
> OH ALSO I kinda fucked with history here a little? I know that Bahorel and Jehan knew each other earlier than 1831, and they were both members of Les Amis for at least 5 (?) years before 1832, but for the sake of this story I've changed that. So the progression of time/when certain things take place is a little bit off and I hope that isn't too terribly glaring. Any and all critique is welcome.
> 
> !!!tw a short scene including attempted noncon in this chapter but it doesn't get very far at all and it doesn't happen to any of our boys

They first meet in a rally turned riot, in the early months of 1831.

Jehan is caught in the swell of a crowd when the police barrel through on horseback to break up the fray. He scrambles to avoid flailing limbs and horse hooves, but is brought down when an officer strikes his shoulder with a baton.

His knee hits the dirt just as someone else's knee nearly hits his face. He grabs his shoulder and winces, hissing through his teeth. The fear of being kicked in the gut lingers in the back of his mind until someone ducks behind him and hauls him up with strong, steady hands.

“You must stand, my friend, you must _fight_!”

Jehan turns around to find a wild looking man who radiates excitement and anger staring him directly in the eye. He breathes a _thank you, monsieur_ , and then the man is gone.

-

Two nights later, they properly introduce themselves. Jehan attends a meeting full of other students and workers who have organized with the intention of rectifying the government's wrongdoings. It is the second meeting he's attended in this café, the second of many.

He isn't surprised to see the man from the riot there, since other men he recognizes have attended as well. They sit around tables and drink from tankards as they debate with each other and give opinions on what they believe should be done.

There is one voice that cuts through them all, and it belongs to someone so beautiful and fierce that Jehan fears he may fall in love. This man, Enjolras, appears to be the leader of the rowdy group of angry men. Jehan can't help but admire the fervor and fury with which he speaks.

It's similar to the passion and rage that Jehan saw in the man from the riot. The man he can't stop glancing at.

He tries not to stare as he studies the man's face. It looks different here, in the candlelight of the Musain. There is a fresh bruise above his left eyebrow and a wide grin splitting his face. He is such a strong presence in the room that Jehan would be intimidated if he wasn't so enamored with the small gap between the man's front teeth. It would be almost unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't scrutinizing him, to anyone who wasn't watching every time he laughed or smiled. It's like he has transformed from a werewolf to a pup. 

Well. Maybe not a pup.

There is still a sharpness to his eyes, a set to his shoulders that suggested he wouldn't mind throwing punches instead of sharing words. Jehan is afraid, intrigued, and far too shy to say anything.

To his mild distress, he does not escape the man's notice all night. As most people are preparing to leave, someone comes up behind him and places two large hands on his shoulders, conveniently avoiding the bruise on one side.

“I saw a charming young woman in the most hideous frock coat at a protest some days ago,” a voice bellows. “She ran off before I could find out her name, though. Perhaps one of you knows of such a fine lady?”

Jehan bites his bottom lip, as through trying to deter his smile, and flushes all the way to his ears. A few patrons laugh as the man circles around to sit in the seat next to him. This friendly teasing is unexpected. 

“She had soft blue eyes and brown hair, like grain,” the man takes a lock of Jehan's long hair between his fingers and twirls it theatrically. “I saved her from certain death as she _swooned_ at the savage actions of the police –”

Jehan swats his hand away and glares. “I _did not_ swoon.”

He is rewarded with laughter all around the table and a brilliant grin from the man in front of him.

“What is your name, my fine maiden?”

“Continue to call me that and you will never find out,” he threatens. He can't hide his smile or his blush, but he makes sure his voice does not shake.

“Jehan!” a voice cries, “He is called Jehan!”

“Jehan?” the man asks as if he was missing a joke.

“Jean Prouvaire,” Jehan says, “However, I am called Jehan by close friends.”

“Well then, Jehan,” the man grins in a way that is both charming and annoying, “You may call me Bahorel.”

“You are rather bold,” Jehan says. Bahorel just laughs and offers his hand. Jehan doesn't hesitate, he takes it and squeezes firmly. _I am not some child_ , he wants to say, _I am a man, just like you_.

Jehan is not sure if he made the intended impression, but Bahorel doesn't seem to mind him either way.

-

It turns out that Jehan did _not_ make the intended impression, not really.

Bahorel treats him about the same as the others. He continues to tease and joke and come to meetings with black eyes and brilliant smiles. He argues with many men, sometimes going as far as to threaten them before Enjolras levels him with a stern gaze. And Bahorel never disobeys Enjolras, none of them do.

However, Bahorel almost acts like Jehan is a kid sibling instead of a friend, an equal. He keeps Jehan close when conflict arises and shoots down men who grow angry with Jehan's words.

It is flattering, in a way, but also patronizing and irritating. Jehan wants it to _stop_.

He confronts Bahorel once, telling him _you know, I can handle myself just fine,_ and Bahorel replies with of _course, of course,_ but nothing changes.

- 

Nothing changes, even as the cold winds taper back into soft breezes and birds begin to chirp. Nothing changes as the wine glasses fill and drain with the rising and setting of the sun.Nothing changes _,_ and it's still annoying the hell out of Jehan, even as he and Bahorel fall away from being acquaintances and grow close to being friends. 

Nothing changes.

That is, until one night when Jehan stirs up a bit of a mess.

Courfeyrac is going to a tavern where he plans to meet a date, and Jehan decides to walk with him because he's got nothing better to do. Once there, Courfeyrac takes his lady by the arm and leaves for a more appealing destination with a wink.

Bahorel happens to be at the bar, along with a rowdy group of men. Jehan only knows about half of them, but when Bahorel wraps an arm around his shoulders and sits him down in front of a bottle of wine, he doesn't bother to make many new friends.

The night is full of merriment and drinking and Jehan feels wonderful to let his concerns slip to the back of his mind. He is far quieter, far more soft-spoken than most people in the tavern, but he enjoys himself regardless. Bahorel keeps telling awful jokes that the entire room boos at, but Jehan and the rest all smile and laugh with him.

The patrons are boisterous and rude, but most are kind enough. There are some men in the bar, however, that make Jehan's stomach turn. They stink of lechery and filth and Jehan can't stand to look at them for too long. He grows restless, and almost excuses himself for the night when the leers and glares start to make his skin crawl. Bahorel's company is all that keeps him around.

But the twist in his heart when Bahorel smiles at him is barely stronger than the twist in his gut when drunkards scowl at him. 

He laments, in his head, that these men live in such a state for a reason. He wishes he could help them, but he cannot. Not even through the liberation of France could these men become aware of the beauty in life.

Bahorel tugs Jehan away from such thoughts with a firm hand on his arm and a crude joke in his ear. Jehan laughs and blushes, but catches sight of something unpleasant from the corner of his eye.

A man grabs a woman by the wrist and pulls her into his lap. She squeals, but he covers her mouth with one fat, dirty hand. He locks an arm around her as she thrashes and grunts, and two other men start laughing uproariously. When one man shoves a hand up her skirt, Jehan stands suddenly and shouts.

His voice is steady and deep, and it cuts through the bar like the crack of a carbine firing. Most people quiet immediately, looking to him expectantly. The woman freezes too, her wide eyes pleading with him. 

If he were to glance down, satisfaction would settle deep in his bones. Bahorel is gaping up at him in stunned silence.

One of the men stands up and asks, “And what the fuck do _you_ want, you little ponce?”

“Remove your hands,” he says to the man with the girl in his lap. “I will not have you soil an unwilling young woman to feed your depravity.”

Ugly laughter follows his words. They intend to humiliate, but Jehan is having none of it.

The man moves his hand to the girl's throat then, and she lets out a storm of curses that would make Jehan blush if he was not overcome with anger. Other men have stood up as well, glaring viciously at either Jehan or the old pervert. The tavern is split between rival mindsets.

“Why, I do believe the pretty little queer is _jealous_ ,” the old lecher spits out, and other men shout and laugh in agreement.

Bahorel starts to rise to his feet at that, but Jehan pushes him down with a firm hand on his shoulder. Bahorel squeezes Jehan's wrist and tenses like a beast ready to pounce at the next unwelcome words.

Then the man moves his hand from the girl's throat to her breast, and all Hell breaks loose.

Jehan, along with other men and women, jump forward to put a stop to the assault. The girl jerks away and throws an elbow that hits the man in the face with enough force to knock his head against the hard wood of the wall behind them. She scrambles loose and runs off. 

And that's how Jehan becomes involved in a bar brawl.

-

“You, my friend, are no pugilist.”

“But you are not much of a poet, so we are on equal footing.”

“Poetry does not win fights,” Bahorel mutters. “Hold still a moment.”

Jehan moans a little pathetically when Bahorel presses a wet cloth to a scrape across his jaw.

“Perhaps we should have Joly fix me.”

“Joly would most likely faint at the sight of you,” Bahorel remarks.

“I am not _that_ bad off!”

Bahorel barks out a laugh. “Have you _seen_ yourself? You're –”

His smile falls as he cuts himself off. He pauses a moment, wipes Jehan's brow, and says, “No, no you aren't. You were fantastic – you _are_ fantastic. That disgusting shit and his kind deserve every blow they received. I could not imagine a greater way to end the night.”

Jehan can't stop the smile that spreads across his sore face. “I told you, I can take care of myself.”

“I promise,” Bahorel returns the smile, “I will not doubt you again.”


	2. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan loves Bahorel's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hand kinks and cheesy flower analogies hooray

There are cuts across Bahorel's knuckles. They are uniform and slightly suspicious, but Jehan doesn't ask questions as he runs his soft thumb across the healing gashes. They've split open in some places, where skin restlessly shifts across bone, and Jehan remarks that Bahorel will have a dotted line scarred across his hand. Bahorel laughs and says he does not mind.

It is this night that Jehan begins to develop a fixation upon Bahorel's large, rough hands. They are not as callused as Feuilly's or as elegant as Enjolras's, but they are sturdy and clever and graceful all at the same time. Unlike Jehan's hands, there is a hardiness to them, a strength that is attractive and reassuring and _amazing_.

Each time he touches Bahorel's hands, a small bit of guilt trickles down the back of his mind like poison dripping from the lips of the deceased. He thinks back to the way those hands have always felt on him, pulling him up during a protest, dragging him out of a bar fight, ruffling his long brown hair, they have always sent a thrill through his body like a storm sweeping across the sea.

Jehan is reminded of all the people who would call his infatuation with another man's body _disgusting_ or _vile_ or _impure_. But if there is real, genuine love to be found, can something really be so wrong?

At one point, Jehan notices Bahorel circling the rim of a bottle with his index finger. He has a crooked smile on his face that makes him look like a boy (a boy with impressive sideburns and no shortage of rough stubble, but still a boy). Jehan's heart is set aflutter when Bahorel laughs at something Grantaire says. It's light and playful, and Jehan flushes happily at the pure joy in it.

Bahorel moves his hand down the neck of the bottle, fanning his fingers across the length of the dark glass. They curl then, slowly, and Jehan flushes for a different reason. He is only mildly concerned at the contrast of affection and arousal he feels at the sight.

Well, this is new. Perhaps _impure_ isn't too far off the mark.

- 

That night, Jehan takes a long walk before heading home. He crosses through a park where wild flowers grow unattended. They tangle together in an unruly mess, but they stand tall and strong.

In the patch are two different types of flowers. One is dark blue and tall, with a stiff stem and large petals. The other is bright yellow with short, droopy petals and a stem that curls around the other flowers like vines. Jehan finds himself comparing them to Bahorel. Strong and sturdy and lovable at once. But Bahorel, being the quintessential image of masculinity, would probably object to being compared to flowers. He is so gruff, so solid, so daring, so _wonderful_.

Jehan blushes and feels like a young girl with a fixation on a man many years her senior. It feels shameful, but floods his body with giddy delight.

When he has buried himself under his covers later that night, Jehan thinks about smiles and laughter and hands. He thinks about the way opposing forces can come together to create something beautiful and perfect.

He wonders how rough hands would feel clasped with his own softer ones, how they would feel brushing his cheek, or caressing his arm, or sliding down his thighs.

Jehan sucks in a shuddering breath and pushes the niggling sense of guilt to the back of his mind. He tells himself he is only attracted to the though of anonymous hands, there are no bruised knuckles or lazy smiles or rich laughter to accompany them. 

After a couple of frustrating moments, he decides that feigning ignorance is getting him nowhere. When he blinks, he sees Bahorel in all of his rugged glory. 

_Forgive me, my friend, for thinking so lewdly of you._

Shame burns his cheeks, but does not stop him. Oh no, Jehan thinks of those hands in _great_ detail for the rest of the night.

-

Bahorel has an irritating amount of friends. Or at least an irritating amount of acquaintances who are willing to buy him drinks in every tavern in Paris.

Jehan should see it as a blessing really, since things only seem to be getting worse in the city. Bahorel knows people everywhere, finds himself in taverns and cafés that Jehan has never heard of before. His loyalty to Les Amis de l'ABC and their cause means he is more than happy to make allies out of men who have never set foot in the Musain before, men who have never heard Enjolras and the others speak with fire and conviction.

That is all fine, absolutely lovely, but Jehan finds himself growing impatient as the weeks stretch on with only a few glimpses of Bahorel. He drifts into the café for meetings, sometimes stops by Jehan's favorite wine shop, but that's about it. Jehan certainly sees much more of his other friends, which leads him to take their company for granted on nights when his frustration over Bahorel's absence peaks.

There are some rare nights, when Bahorel has not been around for days, where Jehan is grumpy and tense and writes biting words that mean absolutely nothing. He scrawls them in jagged lettering, because his hand is too aggravated for eloquence. At one point he writes with such irritation that he tears the paper, and Courfeyrac to pokes fun at his sour mood. Jehan scowls at Courfeyrac's smile, but it is impossible to stay angry with Courfeyrac, so Jehan apologizes for his mood. 

When Bahorel _is_ around, however, Jehan is too nervous to indulge in his desire to touch. Casual glances and handshakes color his cheeks a pretty scarlet. Courfeyrac pokes fun at him for that too, but Jehan takes delight in knowing that Courfeyrac can't see the thoughts in his head.

His infatuation grows each time Bahorel is around him. With friends, Bahorel almost always shines. He plays off of Bossuet and Courfeyrac wonderfully, but is always serious when Combeferre or Enjolras has something to discuss with him. Most times, he is the yellow flower. He is bright and tactile and loving with everyone, giving away liberal amounts of crooked grins and pats on the back.

Sometimes, though, Bahorel becomes the blue flower. His back is rigid and unhappy, his words are clipped and rude, his entire character is unwelcoming and hostile. In these moments, he is unpredictable. He could either be silent and brooding or angry and challenging. Jehan finds himself locked in a debate with Bahorel during one of these moods, and it is exhilarating.

Even when he is sour and brash, there is an allure to Bahorel. He is always bold and unafraid to put his thoughts out in the open. It inspires Jehan, in a way, to speak out as well.

They wind up arguing more than once about trivial things and important things and absolutely stupid things. Sometimes they agree, but they argue anyway, because Bahorel loves a good argument and Jehan loves the way Bahorel's ideals make him _think_.

Bahorel admits once that he enjoys arguing with Jehan. He tells Jehan that he is impressed with the way his friend can come out of his shell with teeth bared when the situation calls for it. Jehan blushes and stammers and kicks himself for being so terribly awkward, but revels in the praise.

Bad moods can be fun, but what Jehan loves more is when Bahorel is in good spirits. He jokes and teases playfully, unaware of the effect he has on the young man. 

There are times, though, that Jehan pretends. He looks at the twinkle in Bahorel's eye and imagines the fond look of a lover there, or fantasizes that the friendly hand squeezing his shoulder is far more intimate. 

But then Jehan remembers that Bahorel is, like himself, a man. And most men would not approve of the way Jehan longs for Bahorel's touch. Jehan may be a poet and his imagination may be untamable, but he is enough of a realist to acknowledge the futility in his attraction. 

So he sits back and watches Bahorel with a hint of melancholy and hopes his infatuation isn't obvious. He ignores the uncomfortable way his chest tightens when he sees Bahorel's hands on beautiful girls or handsome boys.

Jehan fails to ignore the way his pulse betrays him when those hands are on himself, however. Every handshake, every pat on the back, every light touch sets his heart hammering.

Those hands are going to be the death of him.


	3. Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel loves Jehan's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yar, UST ahoy

The meeting in the back room of the Musain has been adjourned, and those who did not go home are passing around a bottle of wine and indulging in some revelry. Jehan is gaping at a horribly rude joke Grantaire told when someone tugs on his hair.

“Jehan, you _must_ trim this wild mop some day,” Courfeyrac mutters. Jehan blushes through a barely concealed grin and swats the offending hand away. That's when another hand comes up to rest atop his head. A large, rough, broad hand.

The hand runs across the top of Jehan's head in the same way one would pet cat from head to tail. Fingertips glide easily over the soft hair before slipping in under Jehan's ponytail holder to playfully tug down. Jehan does not fight the force, but lets his head follow the motion, and finds himself looking at an upside-down Bahorel.

“Courfeyrac has a point, you know,” he says with a smile, “You are beginning to look like a fine young woman.”

“Oh, not _that_ again,” Jehan mutters, smiling a bit nervously as Courfeyrac elbows Bahorel's ribs and laughs.

“He is far more pretty than any young lady I have met,” Courfeyrac jokes. Bahorel smirks wolfishly and Jehan thinks for a moment that he looks silly from upside-down, in a disgustingly endearing way.

“More beautiful than any maiden Paris has ever seen,” Bahorel quips. His tone is light and teasing, yet Jehan feels a thrill through his body at the words.

Jehan jerks forward out of embarrassment, but Bahorel's fingers are still hooked under the knot keeping his hair tied. It does not come undone, but it slides down a fraction and loosens Jehan's hair. Bahorel tuts apologetically behind him and mutters, “Oh Jehan, I have mussed your hair even farther. Allow me to rectify my mistake.”

And then Bahorel winds up spending most of the evening playing with Jehan's hair.

It starts when he disentangles the tie from Jehan's hair and notes just how twisted his locks really are. At that moment, Bahorel sets out on a personal quest to get Jehan's hair back into order. He has no comb, so he uses his fingers.

Jehan manages to fidget as little as possible when Bahorel brings a hand up to his shoulder, steadying him while fighting with some of the larger knots. To Jehan's surprise, though, Bahorel is very gentle. He only tugs uncomfortably hard once, and apologizes with a gruff _shit, forgive me_ under his breath.

Some men in the café find humor in Bahorel taking to Jehan's messy hair like an exasperated mother. A chorus of _Bahorel the Barber!_ breaks out at one point, but Bahorel only laughs in reply. He focuses so intently upon Jehan's hair that he untangles the entire mess rather quickly for someone who is a little more than half-drunk.

To Jehan's credit, he doesn't blush the entire time, but he is regretful to know that Bahorel will soon stumble away from him to find another drink and perhaps a brawl in the streets or a lady for his bed.

But even when he is finished, Bahorel remains standing behind Jehan, lingering with his hands braced on the back of Jehan's chair. Jehan cranes his neck around a bit to get a good look at him and mutters a _thank you_ with a small smile. Bahorel smiles a big warm grin, looking a little drunk and very content. Then, without warning, he ducks down and wraps his arms around Jehan's shoulders, crushing Jehan in a tight hug and burring his face in Jehan's hair.

That single act nearly kills Jehan on the spot.

He goes completely rigid in his chair, eyes wide, and he lets out a high noise that he refuses to acknowledge as a _squeak_. Laugher roars around the table as Jehan hunches his shoulders in defense against the onslaught of drunken affection. Bahorel noses his way to Jehan's ear through the curtain of hair and whispers, “More beautiful than _any_ maiden.”

Jehan is convinced he's going to drop dead from humiliation. Joly pounds on the table as he gasps for breath while Bossuet struggles to drink from his tankard through the laughter shaking his frame. Bahorel seems quite content to slouch over Jehan's body like a big friendly bear for the rest of the night. Jehan is torn between wanting to pull him closer and wanting to push him away.

Thankfully Courfeyrac comes to the rescue, prying Bahorel off the mortified poet with an arm around his neck and a bottle of wine in case bribery is called for. Jehan is left in peace for about ten minutes before Courfeyrac comes back up behind him and starts twisting his hair all around just for the hell of it.

Bahorel looks terribly offended and marches over to swat Courfeyrac's hand away. Jehan is horrified for a moment, thinking that Bahorel is going to pick a fight with Courfeyrac in some intoxicated moment of poor judgement. But then Bahorel breaks out in a wide smile and Jehan sighs with relief.

Soon though, Jehan has two sets of hands playing with his hair. He feels slightly put off, like he is a doll for them to manipulate. But Bahorel keeps leaning down to slur stupid jokes into his ear, so Jehan puts up with it.

He laughs at the way the two men behind him fail at putting his hair up in three different places with one tie. They try to use his wavy locks to hold bundles of hair in place, but it all inevitably unfurls. At one point, a barmaid whistles and dangles a handful of fabric strips. Joly bounds over and takes them from her grasp with a nod and a thank you before joining Courfeyrac and Bahorel behind Jehan.

Soon Jehan has about five men standing behind him, weaving ribbons in his hair and tying bows all around his head. They're all laughing and drinking and teasing Jehan jovially.

More than once, Jehan notices Bahorel's hands straying from his hair. He pinches Jehan's cheeks, which earns him a slap against the knuckles and a glare with no real heat in it. He squeezes Jehan's shoulder, and rubs large warm circles into his bicep.

The most alarming instance is when he lays a broad hand flat against the juncture of Jehan's shoulder and neck. Jehan writes it off as Bahorel trying to steady himself, as drink has been affecting his legs for the past hour. But then the hand slides slowly across Jehan's neck, down across Jehan's collar bone, under the opening of Jehan's shirt. Jehan has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making some kind of indecent sound. He pointedly looks away from Bahorel as he squirms a little in his seat, leading Bossuet to chastise him for moving too much.

Jehan nearly moans when Bahorel's fingers start moving. He is convinced these touches are all intentionally arousing, Bahorel cannot be so drunk to think his hands have no effect upon Jehan. But then, Jehan understands what he is doing. Bahorel gropes his way back out to the front of the shirt and starts tugging Jehan's loose cravat the rest of the way off. Just another hair tie.

Jehan is both relieved and disappointed.

Bahorel takes the mass of Jehan's hair and ties it up in a high ponytail with the cravat. Everyone involved in the project cheers loudly as they look on at their final product. The barmaid is hiding her face in her hands as she laughs. Even the proprietress looks amused.

Jehan's face is so warm that he fears it might melt right off. All eyes in the café are twinkling with mirth as they gaze upon Jehan. A young woman strides up and gives him a small hand mirror. Jehan hesitantly turns it until he can see his reflection.

“ _Oh my!_ ”

Another round of laughter erupts as Jehan lowers his head and bites his lip. He cannot help the wide embarrassed smile that breaks out.

His hair is pulled back tightly. Only a few wavy strands fall to frame his face. Weaved poorly into his hair are all kinds of ribbons and strips of fabric.

But it's the colors that really strike Jehan. His friends have essentially made his head into a tricolor flag. There are some greens and purples and oranges weaved in among the red, white, and blue, but Jehan's head is quite the patriotic symbol.

“If only Enjolras were here,” Bossuet says, “He would weep for the beauty.” 

Combeferre flicks his bald head lightly and Jehan brings a hand up to his mouth to hide a smile. Grantaire plays with a bit of hair that is sticking out from the mass of red ribbons and says, “You should keep it in, Jehan, you look rather fetching.”

Jehan stand up then, for the first time in close to an hour, and stretches his stiff legs. “As lovely as your craftsmanship is, I am afraid I would like to have them removed now.”

The café is filled with disappointed groans, but nobody speaks up in protest. Many of the patrons have filed out by now, and the evening has grown well into nighttime. Most of the day's fun is over, and some chairs are being put up on top of tables in preparation to close down the café.

Jehan sighs when nobody jumps to help untangle his hair, and throws himself in a seat by the window to pick as many bows out as possible before heading home. He starts tearing at the ribbons when Bahorel pulls up a chair and sits directly in front of Jehan. “Let me help,” he mutters, and reaches out for Jehan's hair.

“You do not have to,” Jehan catches Bahorel's hand before he starts untangling the knots. Bahorel looks puzzled a moment, and Jehan tries not to think too much about the way Bahorel's hand feels wrapped in his fingers.

“Nonsense,” Bahorel says, “It is partly my fault you are in such a condition. I am not yet too drunk to untie ribbons and untangle knots.”

“He lies!” Grantaire jokingly shouts as Courfeyrac pulls him toward the door. Courfeyrac lets the café know that he is going to put the drunkard down for the night and sets off. Bahorel turns to wave goodbye before refocusing his attention upon Jehan. Minutes later, Joly and Bossuet wander over and ask if Bahorel would like any assistance.

“Really friends, I do not mind,” he says, “Jehan and I will be fine.” He winks at Jehan, and Jehan feels the inevitable redness seep into his cheeks. Bossuet laughs and claps Bahorel on the back before he and Joly turn to leave as well.

By this point, the café has lost its liveliest patrons. The remaining men and women sit at candlelit tables and speak in low, calm voices, casting a lethargic and peaceful atmosphere across the room. Bahorel and Jehan converse, discussing nothing in particular. Bahorel tries to drunkenly write Jehan a poem at one point, but Jehan stops him when he tries to rhyme “prowess” with “flower vase”.

“Not all of us can write with the wit of Juvenal, I've no instruments, except for my mind and my tongue,” Bahorel looks at Jehan then, right in the eye. “Though I've been told I have both tools mastered _very_ well.”

Jehan is left without words, which amuses Bahorel. He grins a little lazily and goes back to Jehan's hair. They speak again, after a brief period of silence, and Jehan tries to not look for a deeper meaning to a drunk's words.

It is different like this, when they are facing each other. Jehan cannot hide the way he shifts uncomfortably and bites his lip to keep from pulling odd faces when Bahorel rakes his fingers through the messy mass of fabric and hair. He also has Bahorel in his line of vision at all times, barely a foot away from his face. When he tries to look away, strong fingers gently guide him back.

Bahore's knee knocks the inside of Jehan's thigh every time he fidgets. He asks why Bahorel is so close, and the reply is simple: “Drink and darkness have united to impair my vision,” Bahorel says, and Jehan decides that perhaps he is overanalyzing each touch and glance. His lovesickness has made him asume each gesture of kindness is an attempted seduction.

But then Bahorel says something, lower than before. “I truly don't mind this. I rather like the feeling of your hair beneath my fingers.”

“And I rather like the feeling of your fingers in my hair,” Jehan says without thinking.

He is immediately horrified at himself for speaking so boldly, so suggestively. Bahorel just laughs, and it is a deep, resonant rumble so different from the playful sound Jehan has come to expect.

There is a strange sort of tension between them after that, though Jehan tells himself that he simply imagines it. They talk quietly like before, but Bahorel's voice seems to have dropped a few octaves. Jehan assumes Bahorel is simply tired and needs to rest his voice after a night of drunken shouting.

Bahorel works with an amazing amount of gentleness for someone who's hands are more often occupied with rougher activities. More than once a gentle tug on a strand of hair turns into something that resembles a caress. Jehan explains it away with Bahorel's drunken clumsiness. 

Finally, all of the colored strips are removed from Jehan's hair. The barmaid saunters over and takes them away with a wink that Bahorel doesn't even acknowledge. He reaches behind Jehan and pulls the cravat loose the whole way before wrapping it around Jehan's neck. He does not tie it, he simply holds it in place. 

“Do you wish for me to escort you home?” he asks, his fists resting lightly on Jehan's chest where the cravat ends on either side. “It is so late, I would hate for you to find trouble with the unsavory folks who thrive under the moonlight.”

Jehan casts his eyes downward and tells himself that Bahorel is being kind, that is all.

“I should be alright,” Jehan assures him. “Perhaps it is _you_ who needs _me_ to be the escort after all the alcohol you imbibed tonight.”

Bahorel's face turns into something Jehan could only describe as a leer. “I think I might like that very much,” he says, and Jehan shudders in the least subtle way possible. Bahorel's fists uncoil until his palms lay flat against Jehan's chest, and suddenly the dark, near-empty café is a blessing. Bahorel stares him in the eye as he, very deliberately, slides his palms down the front of Jehan's waistcoat. 

Jehan gasps almost too quietly to hear, but it seems to be enough for Bahorel. He smiles and removes his hands from where they are resting just under Jehan's ribs before standing up and wandering over to a table where two men are on the verge of passing out. He takes a swig of someone else's wine and pushes his hair back off his forehead. 

Jehan is drawn in the way his hand looks, all sure fingers and strong bones, and decides he must leave before he does something that the two of them will regret. He stands and makes his way to the entrance when Bahorel calls his name.

Jehan turns around and prays that Bahorel will not tease him again. Thankfully, he only gets a smile. It is a real one, warm but somehow still a bit predatory, and Bahorel says, “I _will_ see you home one night.”

It's a promise, though for the sake of his sanity Jehan does not dwell on what it may imply. He nods and smiles and sees himself out.

- 

Jehan can hardly think straight when he finally gets home. He immediately heads for his writing table, shedding clothing as he goes, and winds up scribbling furiously at his desk in nothing but a pair of pants with the suspenders around his hips. 

He writes for hours, until the sun starts to color the sky. He writes about exuberant laughter and drunken camaraderie. He writes about nationalism and beauty and impish jokes. He writes about hands and hair.

He enjoys writing about hands and hair, and continues to write about hands and hair until he has pages and pages of nothing but descriptions of the relationship between rough, callused, beautiful hands and soft, tangled, unruly hair. He writes about hands combing hair, decorating hair, pulling hair. 

Soon the hands are wandering, interacting with skin and mouths and fabric. The hands tug at clothing, roughly but no unkindly. They wander across a flat chest, down past too-visible ribs, over the slight swell of a soft stomach. Fingers trace the small amount of light hair below a belly button that leads downward. Trousers that have slipped down indecently far on angular hips act as a barricade between the fingers and their destination. 

Hands make short work of the trousers, and then Jehan can bear no more before his own hand is put to work.


	4. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan has a bit of a breakdown over his insecurities and then feels silly about the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa I didn't expect anyone to take note of this fic, especially not so quickly! Thank you guys for your kudos and kind words uwu
> 
> This was one of the chapters that I was on the fence about but I guess I'll post it anyway because aww poor little angsty Jehan.

Jehan wakes just before noon. He shifts a bit, and it only takes the slide of skin on sheets for him to realize he is nude. Memories from last night trickle into his conscious mind, and Jehan feels a pang of contempt and self-loathing. He drank not a sip of wine last night, and yet he feels as though his head could crack open at any minute. 

He curls onto his side as regret turns his stomach. He is afraid, though he is not sure why.

 _Surely_ , he thinks, _I must have done something horrible. I must have put Bahorel off. I must have made my friends see me for what I really am._

Jehan rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He wants to cry and scream and throw things and fight someone and he wants to kiss Bahorel so, _so_ badly. Perhaps Bahorel would fight him, perhaps he would punish Jehan for his vile, shameless thoughts.

_I was too obvious._

_I am no better the lecher in the tavern._

_Bahorel will remember the way I acted._

_He will be disgusted_.

Jehan flops out of bed, wiping at his wet eyes. He puts on a shirt that falls to the middle of his thighs and he decides that is sufficient enough. He does not plan on going anywhere.

Very little happens in Jehan's apartment that day. He empties a bottle of wine by himself and eats nearly a full loaf of bread. He is not productive, does nothing for his classes or for the revolutionary cause. He scribbles awful prose all over every inch of paper he can find, even writes on the wall of his bedroom at one point. He groans with rancorous frustration when he reads what he writes, and shreds more than a few papers into small bits.

It gets to a point where his wrist becomes sore from writing and he realizes he is achieving nothing but increasing his agitation. It's the most logical conclusion he's drawn all day, and decides to throw himself back into his sheets and dream about a life in which he does not desire that which he cannot have.

-

The sun is dropping below the horizon as Jehan wakes in a horrible post-nap haze. He's still dressed in nothing but an unbuttoned shirt, and the chill of the evening creeps under his skin. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and waddles sleepily over to his writing desk.

He sits and stares a bit embarrassedly at the mess he has made. There are wine-stained papers strewn all about, and the ugly spiteful words make Jehan grimace. As he perches in his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, blanket falling across his small frame, he is ashamed of his tantrum.

With a sigh, he begins crumpling up papers and tossing them in the direction of the bin. But it is dark, and Jehan does not want to accidentally throw away something important. He gets up to retrieve a lamp, and when he comes back something catches his eye.

A sheet a paper penned in a less sloppy hand is peeking out from under a particularly morbid poem. Jehan recognizes it as his word vomit from last night, and reluctantly picks it up.

Sitting again with his knees drawn up to his chest, Jehan reads. Two sentences in and he is fighting a grin. There are no names, but names are not needed when describing Les Amis de l'ABC. Each of Jehan's friends come to life under the words, and Jehan suddenly misses their company.

When he reads about hands and hair, however, his stomach twits in warning. He ignores it, and powers on instead.

It doesn't take long before he's biting his lip and blushing bright red. There are pages upon pages of this, and it's all so blatantly erotic that Jehan is dumbfounded by his shamelessness. The thing that properly shocks him, though, is the way each word points to one man. He couldn’t be more obvious if he scrawled “Fuck me, Bahorel” in bold lettering across the paper.

He reaches the last few pages and any bit of subtly is quickly done away with. Jehan nearly gasps in disbelief at just how vulgar and bold his words are. He imagines even Bahorel would properly blush if he were to find this paper.

 _Bahorel_. He remembers now, remember the way Bahorel smiled at him just before he left. The way Bahorel's hands couldn't keep away from him all night, the way they ran down the front of his chest. Surely it was all drunk affection, Bahorel is naturally tactile when in the company of good friends. He spends his time drinking and brawling, the concept of personal space isn't necessary in that kind of lifestyle. 

But the way he _looked_ and Jehan, the way he _sounded_ , it was all terribly indecent. Surely Bahorel did not treat all of his friends like that, or else the whole of France would be fighting for a place in his bed.

Jehan groans and looks up at the ceiling. This is getting out of hand. He acknowledges that this infatuation is beginning to grow into an obsession, and obsessions aren't healthy. Bahorel's suggestive teasing only hightens Jehan's deisre. He decides that he must resolve this situation.

Somehow.


	5. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's sexual frustration hits a speed bump and then goes through the roof.

Paris is in a tired lull as the sinking sun casts orange-tinted light through the humid air. Jehan gently fans himself with a sonnet, trying to cool down and fight off the thick fog of smoke at the same time. The Musain is crowded, full of people who are seeking refuge from the heat but too lazy to do much but sit around and puff sluggishly on cigars and cigarettes.

There is a rainstorm creeping in from the south, turning what could have been a pleasant evening into a muggy nightmare. Most men are down to their waistcoats, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Sweat dampens each nape, each shirt, each head of hair, and for once, Bossuet considers his baldness a blessing.

Jehan's own hair is tied higher up than usual, to keep it off his neck. He would have gathered his papers and left an hour ago if it didn't mean trekking through the heat all the way back to his apartment. It doesn't seem worth it to move, so move he does not.

Many of his friends are hiding in the shade of the Musain as well. In the next room, he can hear Enjolras's voice. It is clear and strong, as if heat exhaustion isn't something Enjolras's body is familiar with. He speaks with Combeferre about politics, but not revolution. The café is far too full, far too occupied with the kind of people who would not take kindly to words of rebellion. A proper meeting will have wait for another time.

The café is almost overwhelmingly lethargic. Everyone is weary from doing nothing but too damn hot to care. So they sit in their sweat, content with the apathetic boredom that escapes their bodies with every drop.

That is, until –

“We have need of the strongest liquors a man could find in this parisian heat!”

The rough voice cuts through the café, but very few patrons bother to look up.

In the doorway stands two figures. They appear as one as the sun haloes their bodies, shrouding them in the darkness of a silhouette. They stumble forward a bit, out of the light, and a woman alerts the rest of the café with a gasp. Jehan glances over and fears his heart might burst.

Bahorel and Grantaire are standing together, draped over each other as gracelessly as possible with matching grins. It's a wonder that neither man appears to be missing any teeth, since the rest of their faces bare evidence of battery. Their bodies are decorated with small cuts and bruises that will look magnificent come morning.

Grantaire has somehow managed to scrape his forehead, and a bit of blood is running down into his swollen eye. Bahorel is an even more impressive sight to behold, with blood steadily tricking from his nose and ominous darkening around his eyes. His shirt is completely ruined with blood and sweat.

Jehan turns back to his work and tries to steady his breathing. Their smiles calm his fears, but elicit excitement.

“ _Joly_!” a barmaid shouted, “Joly, come quick!”

The two men slip apart with a nod and a wink and part ways in search for alcohol to sooth their aches. Grantaire settles for harassing an old man with deep wrinkles and a full bottle in his hands. Bahorel takes a friendlier route.

“Sweet Jehan, my favorite little wordsmith,” he perches a little unsteadily on the edge of the small table that Jehan is slouching over. There are piles of paper _everywhere_ , some crumpled and torn. Jehan has been camping out here all day, trying to collect his thoughts.

When Bahorel reaches for the bottle of wine by Jehan's elbow, a few drops of blood plunge from the slope above his upper lip and land in fat globs on the bit of paper Jehan is working on.

Immediately apologetic, Bahorel pulls back sharply and rubs his bloody upper lip with a dirty sleeve. He looks almost ashamed for a moment, as if he fears upsetting his friend.

Jehan, though, is anything but angry. He picks up the paper and scrutinizes it closely. Then he smiles in a lazy kind of way and said, “Do not worry, it is rather fitting.”

Bahorel looks vaguely concerned for a moment before Joly comes barreling down the stairs. He quickly turns his head away from the room and toward Jehan, who looks up and tuts softly at the bruised face above him. The cuts and scrapes look awful up close, and the bruises are already coloring a pretty purple. He moves to prod at one when Bahorel playfully swats at his hand and shushes him. Behind them is a swelling chorus of voices led by Grantaire, who is vocal about his opposition to being “fussed over”. 

It doesn't take long for the first floor of the café to become electric with activity now that there are two men bleeding all over everything. Joly is convinced that Grantaire has broken his left hand. The proprietress is running back and forth screaming about the blood on the floor. Enjolras is scolding Grantaire with his glare, and the heat in his gaze is terrifying.

Over at Jehan's table sits Bossuet. Bahorel is still on the tabletop, with Jehan cleaning his cuts out to calm Joly down. Bossuet keeps asking about the fight, but Bahorel can't get the words out with Jehan constantly holding his jaw still to wipe at a gash or to soak up some blood with a cloth.

“You do not have to do this, you know,” he mumbles as Jehan dabs at a cut on his brow. “I am sure Joly will be delighted to fret over my injuries once he's finished torturing Grantaire. 

“Perhaps you could cease brawling in alleyways,” Jehan suggests. “Then nobody would have to do the job.” 

“Jehan, my dear,” Bahorel smiles, “For me to abandon brawls would be for you to abandon words! I write poetry with my fists.” 

Sweet, gentle Jehan glares at Bahorel with enough intensity to strike a lesser man dead. To his credit, Bahorel only leans away slightly. Bossuet laughs from beside them and throws out a comment about how some women are attracted to a man with bruises and scars. 

“Yes,” Bahorel says, “Think of the ladies, Jehan!” He beams at Jehan and then immediately regrets it when he strains a cut on his cheek. He hisses though his teeth and Bossuet titters quietly behind him. 

Jehan draws out the cleaning process for longer than necessary. If Bahorel notices, he doesn't mind. He is content to rattle off details about the scuffle to Bossuet and anyone else who might care to listen.

He speaks of the event lightly, but Jehan trembles to imagine it. Bahorel takes few things seriously, but he does not always find time for humor in fights. Recently, with political tension sparking most of his conflicts, Bahorel's brawls are anything but playful. He becomes something terrible, something so violent and unrestrained that even the police dread his rage.

_A bullet in his breast would not stop Bahorel_ , Jehan thinks, _it would only serve to enrage him farther._

Joly finally moves away from Grantaire and starts examining Bahorel. He declares Bahorel's nose as (most likely) not broken and does another quick check to make sure nothing is festering in his open cuts. 

Bossuet laughs at that, and assures Joly that Jehan did a _very_ thorough cleaning job. Jehan blushes a bit out of fear that he was too obvious, and then blushes some more when Bahorel gives him a sly look out the corner of his eye.

Perhaps Bahorel _did_ notice the way his hands lingered. 

The Musain eventually calms down back to its dormant state. Grantaire and Bahorel both find full bottles and sit in a corner to nurse themselves back to strength. 

Jehan finds his muse in their bruised and battered figures. Grantaire makes him feel gloomy under the heat of the sun. He drinks and jokes but retains an air of despondency. His slurred words are poetry, seducing the ear with an edge of hopeless sarcasm and drunken wit.

Jehan feels almost guilty as his hand glides over paper, cataloguing each barking laugh and lazy sigh. It's almost as if he's betraying his friend's trust, like he's recording something entirely too personal. 

On the other hand, Bahorel looks positively elated, all bright eyed and smiling like he's still running off of the adrenaline from the fight. Jehan loses himself in trying to bring that grin to life, trying to capture the art of each bruise. With every word he feels his hand tremble. Writing about Bahorel makes him feel dizzy and excited, and he never wants to stop.

Jehan hunches over his paper like he's scared someone will read over his shoulder. He knows he shouldn't be writing about this in public, but he can't help it.

Sometimes when he glances up at the two of them, Bahorel is looking at Jehan with a strange edge to his smile. Jehan smiles back sweetly and a bit droopily in the overwhelming heat, which is usually enough for Bahorel to turn back to Grantaire. Sometimes, though, Bahorel's smile shifts to something a little more secretive, or her bites his lip and drags his eyes across Jehan's body with a grin.

If Jehan was a woman, he might almost assume Bahorel was flirting with him. But he is not, and Bahorel is probably too drunk at this point for a look like that to mean anything.

The sun is lazily falling lower and lower, and it doesn't feel like the night will provide a reprieve from the humidity. It's not long before Bossuet, Grantaire, and Bahorel are caught up in some kind of drinking contest. Jehan stays for longer than he had intended, content to watch his friends make happy fools out of themselves. Enjolras and Combeferre leave early, along with many other patrons. When darkness starts settling in the streets, someone comments that the clouds are looking terribly cross. 

Sure enough, the sound of thunder rolling threateningly across the sky prompts most people in the café to start packing up for the night. Joly tugs Bossuet up, mumbling something about contracting a cold if they get caught in the rain. They leave together immediately after the first striking clap of thunder.

As for Grantaire, he seems content to sit in the corner for the rest of his life, so Bahorel gives him a pat on the shoulder and walks in zigzags to where Jehan is cramming all of his papers into a bag. 

He runs his fingers across the top of Jehan's head in some horribly uncoordinated caress and says, “I believe I promised something about walking you home about a week back.”

So he _did_ remember that night. Jehan beams and turns to face Bahorel. “You would chose tonight to escort me home, when nobody will be in the streets for fear of dropping dead in the heat or drowning in the rain sure to come?”

Bahorel laughs, and it's such a raw, happy sound. He leans in a bit closer and mutters, “Actually I was hoping I could lodge with you tonight, as my apartment is quite far away and yours is much closer. I don't want to walk all the way home in the rain.”

“I do have another mattress,” Jehan says through a smile. “Perhaps you could sleep upon it tonight.”

Bahorel claps his hands together and grins widely. “Then it is decided! We should depart now, before the rain sets in.” 

And so they leave the Musain with a goodbye to those still inside. They walk as quickly as they can with one member of their party badly bruised and horribly drunk. Bahorel keeps swaying into Jehan's space, tripping once and falling heavily on Jehan's side.

They are both taken with a fit of giggles that is interrupted by the ominous sound of thunder, so they straighten their backs and walk with longer strides.

They do not beat the storm, however. The sky dumps fat, heavy raindrops in torrents upon them. Jehan panics a bit, knowing that his bag is in danger of soaking straight through. 

When he expresses his concern, Bahorel grabs his hand and starts running. They charge down the streets hand in hand, barreling through puddles as their drenched coats flap behind them.

- 

“Have you no oil lamps, Jehan?”

The boys are safe from the storm, but not from breaking their toes on a cabinet or tripping over a stack of books to their deaths. 

“Yes, yes, on the small table next to the bookshelves.”

There is some fumbling, a thump, two clicks, an _ah ha!_ and then, light. Bahorel looks terribly pleased with himself, and Jehan can't help but smile at the childlike pride. His papers are all damp, but some can yet be salvaged. He lays them next to another small lamp before lighting it as well.

Bahorel has found some candles, and is set on lighting ever single one of them. Jehan laughs and tells him there is no point, they both will be sleeping soon anyway. Bahorel looks over at Jehan and pouts as best he can. The bruised eyelids seem to hinder him, but they certainly earn him sympathy points.

“You would have me sleep in clothing so wet that it sticks to every inch of me?”

“You could sleep nude,” Jehan ventures, “Though I doubt the neighbors across the way would like to see that when they rise in the morning and look out the window.” 

He pauses a moment, and then adds, “Nor would I like to take care of a naked man, ill from drink, when the morning comes.” 

“Then find me dry clothing, or that is exactly what you will have when the sun rises.” 

Jehan laughs nervously as he feels heat blister his cheeks. He motions for Bahorel to follow him into the bedroom, and starts to rummage through his wardrobe.

Bahorel follows with a candle that he puts on the writing desk, casting just enough light for Jehan to see. There are shirts and pants and waistcoats flying around the room as Jehan searches for something that might possibly fit Bahorel.

“You are so much taller than me,” he says, “I do not know if – wait, here is a shirt that is too big on me.”

He throws the shirt at Bahorel, who is already down to his trousers. Jehan turns away, expecting Bahorel to put the shirt on. He does not expect to feel huffs of warm air across the back of his neck, and his hand falters a bit. Bahorel stands a good few inches above him, all strong and lean and sturdy where Jehan is softer and more pliant. One bare arm reaches around him to grasp at some fabric. 

“And what do you call this beautiful abomination?” Bahorel mutters.

“ _That_ ,” Jehan says, voice sharp with mock offense, “Is a waistcoat.” 

Bahorel noses his way into Jehan's hair and laughs softly. Jehan goes rigid in an instant and becomes acutely aware of everything, the way Bahore's outstretch arm is resting rather firmly against his own, how his own wet clothing sticks uncomfortably to his skin, the way Bahorel's lips feel against his ear as they mumble some teasing remark about Jehan's taste in clothing.

“ _Pants_ ,” Jehan blurts out, “I need to get you pants.”

Bahorel lets go of the waistcoat and throws an arm across Jehan's shoulders. He is shirtless and probably has the flap of his trousers undone. Jehan is soaked to the bone and growing more aroused as each moment passes.

This won't end well.

“Here we are,” Jehan exclaims triumphantly. “These pants belonged to Bossuet once. They should be long enough to fit you.” 

Bahorel's face is clouded with confusion. “Why've you got a pair of Bossuet's trousers in your wardrobe?”

“He lost them one night,” Jehan explains. “Do no ask how, because I do not want to know myself. They were sitting on a table with a tear in the rear. I tailored them to the best of my ability and intended to give them back, but never found the time.”

“Pantsless Bossuet, there is an image I will have to purge from my mind,” Bahorel complains. Jehan laughs and blushes and hands Bahorel a pile of dry clothing to put on. Bahorel is apparently too drunk for shame, and begins stripping right there in front of Jehan.

Jehan, being far more shy, turns away from Bahorel as he peels his wet clothing off. He steals glances, though, and sees the extent of the fight. 

Bahorel is going to be _covered_ in bruises tomorrow.

Jehan thinks that perhaps Bossuet was right, there is something alluring about the way the marks color his skin. Even the dark blotches around his eyes are alarmingly attractive, and they way the blood painted his skin earlier was so vibrant, so beautiful. 

Oh _no_. 

Jehan feels his body reacting a bit too eagerly to the sight of Bahorel's bruised body. He shimmies into the rest of his sleepwear as quickly as he can, making sure to not glance back at Bahorel again. He turns around and is relieved to see that Bahorel made it into his clothes, though he could have buttoned the shirt a bit better. It is only done up a little over half way, giving Jehan a view of the smattering of hair coving a solid torso. Most of the buttons seem to be misaligned with the holes on the other side.

Sighing, Jehan steps forward. “You've buttoned everything all wrong,” he says, and starts working on unbuttoning the shirt. Bahorel just sways a bit where he stands and lets Jehan work.

Jehan buttons it back up, correctly this time, but stops when he gets about half way. He figures he should keep going, it would be the decent thing to do. But it is so _hot_ tonight, and Bahorel looks flushed already. From the humidity, of course.

The moment of hesitation does not go unnoticed. Bahorel brings his hands up to gently circle Jehan's wrists where they hover between their bodies. 

“Jean?” It's so quiet that Jehan hardly recognizes it as his own name. When he looks up, he is made dizzy by the unconcealed hunger in Bahorel's eyes. Bahorel is a predator, ready to devour his prey.

Jehan's breath falters and he fears he may faint. It really shouldn't come as a surprise when Bahorel bends to his level and kisses him firmly on the mouth.

One part of Jehan's brain is dancing. Another part is screaming _I knew it!_ The last part is alarmed, and terribly afraid. 

Bahorel smells like drink and lust. His hands move from Jehan's wrist to take Jehan's face in his large hands. He is coarse, and slightly uncoordinated. It has Jehan's excitement climbing higher and higher, but he does not want it like _this_. He does not want Bahorel to touch him when he is so far gone in the haze of alcohol, doesn't want Bahorel to do something that they both might regret. He is rough and demanding, which Jehan finds both arousing and frightening.

Bahorel is bigger than him. Bahorel is not thinking as he usually would. Bahorel might hurt him, and then what would he do?

So Jehan struggles a bit, and panics when Bahorel tightens his hold.

“Bahorel –” Jehan whimpers between kisses, “Bahorel, _stop_!”

When Bahorel definitely does _not_ stop, Jehan decides he's had enough. He struggles harder, and manages to pry Bahorel's hands from his face.

And then he punches Bahorel square in the nose. Hard.

Bahorel stumbles back with a sharp cry. Jehan is proud of himself for about four seconds. Then he realizes that he just punched Bahorel in the face. _Bahorel_ , a man who could kill him with one hand. Jehan is fearful at once, convinced that he's going to be dead before the sun rises.

Bahorel, who is holding his head in his hands, straightens his back and groans. Jehan tenses and considers dashing for the door, but cannot bring himself to flee like a coward. When Bahorel turns toward him, he sees the blood soaking through spaces between the thick fingers.

Jehan feels regret coiling in his gut. “I have hurt you.”

“A blow well deserved,” Bahorel says, “And well delivered.”

Jehan relaxes a bit when Bahorel's voice is calm and almost melancholy. Bahorel lowers his hands, and Jehan gasps at the damage he has done. 

“Your nose, I have, I have –”

“You have broken it, I think,” Bahorel says. “Joly will not be pleased tomorrow.”

Then Bahorel smiles in a way that makes him look even more sad, and Jehan's heart weeps. He moves forward, now unafraid, and tries to touch Bahorel's jaw. His hand is swatted away and Bahorel turns away a fraction. 

“I am sorry Jehan, truly,” he begins, “I have greatly misunderstood your intentions, and now I have hurt you because of it –” 

“No, no, no,” Jehan whispers, “You have misunderstood nothing.”

Bahorel grows quiet. Jehan can tell he is trying to clear his muddled mind. He looks confused and sad and Jehan is terrified that they've both just ruined everything. There is blood running down his front, and yet another shirt has been sullied. Jehan doesn't mind. 

“You mean...?” Bahorel seems to have lost his words for once. There is hope in his wide, confused eyes. He looks like a dog that has been beaten to much and is finally being shown some semblance of kindness.

Jehan takes Bahorel's chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. “I want nothing more than to have you,” he whispers, inches away from Bahorel's lips, “But not like this, with wine dictating your actions.”

“Wine dictates nothing –”

“But it makes you dare to do what you might not otherwise do,” Jehan says, “And I do not want our friendship to end because you are acting on liquid courage.”

“I do no need _alcohol_ to grant me courage,” Bahorel sounds awfully offended. Jehan can't help but smile.

“A claim easily made when drunk,” he mutters. “Come to me in the daylight, without a belly full of liquor, and prove it.”

Bahorel draws in a breath. “You really want me to?”

Jehan nods. Bahorel exhales. 

“Then I will come to you,” Bahorel says, “And you will have me?”

Jehan smiles and, with his fingers still holding Bahorel's face still, leans in. Bahorel's lips are covered in blood, along with most of the bottom half of his face, and that really should me more off-putting than it is. Jehan likes it, though, the way their lips slide together over the sticky wetness.

He intends to kiss Bahorel once, chastely, but finds he cannot pull away. He peppers small kisses to the corners of Bahorel's mouth, on Bahore's rough chin, licks tentatively at Bahorel's upper lip. The scent and taste of copper overwhelms him, robbing him of rational thought. Bahorel's mouth moves slowly against him, dropping sloppy kisses wherever his lips can touch.

It is only when Bahorel touches him that he is brought out of his daze. He hardly notices it, as it's only fingertips pressing into his hips with a gentleness that makes his heart ache.

Jehan pulls back before he makes a hypocrite of himself. Bahorel's eyes are wide and his breathing is labored. He swipes his thumb along Jehan's bottom lip, where the candlelight reflects in the blood.

Jehan kisses the pad of his thumb and whispers, “In the daylight.”

He takes Bahorel's hand and leads him through the apartment. He wets an old rag and cleans the blood from Bahorle's face as best he can. There is still a bit of blood trickling from his nose, so Jehan instructs him to hold the rag against his nostrils until the bleeding stops.

Then he leaves Bahorel, who tells Jehan to go take care of himself. Once in the solitude of his bedroom, Jehan takes Bahorel's advice. 

He strips down to his shirt as fast as he can and looks at his reflection. There is dried blood sticking uncomfortably around his mouth and chin. Some of it has managed to smear all the way up to his cheekbone. It's like some grotesque makeup job. 

It's terribly arousing. 

Jehan winds up pressing his forehead against the mirror and jerking himself off with rough, hard strokes. It's not enough, though, not quite right. Now that he's tasted what he is after, nothing will satiate him but the real thing. His hand is too small and too soft, his strokes aren't nearly brutal enough.

Jehan wonders if Bahorel would hold him down, leave bruises, mar his pale skin. He wonders if Bahorel would fuck like he fights, all passionate fury and violent elation. He wonders how he himself would react, if he would shrink away or moan like a whore or scream like it was the best and worst feeling in the world.

Jehan wonders if he could mark Bahorel in the same way that Bahorel could mark him, and promptly comes all over his hand.

- 

The sun has not yet risen, but Jehan can't bring himself to fall back asleep. Rain still falls gently outside of his window and the humidity hasn't taken a break. He's dressed only in a plain white shirt that hardly covers all of his private bits as he lies in bed and thinks.

The clouds are gray and angry outside, but the purples and pinks of the impending sunrise send spires of color through the dreary darkness. _Perhaps_ , Jehan thinks, _France will be the clouds when we take her back for the people, and we will be the sunrise._

That thought makes him feel conceited and hopeful all at once. There is still so much to be done if the people are to rise to the call, still so many preparations to be made. Jehan turns his thoughts from France and towards more pressing issues. 

_Bahorel_.

Jehan is no fool, there is a chance Bahorel really was acting on stupid drunkenness, or that he will not remember their exchange at all. Drinking contests among his friends usually lead to a level of intoxication that is almost dangerous, and Bahorel didn't hold back yesterday evening.

Jehan sighs and rolls out of bed, glancing in the mirror before leaving his bedchamber. He cleaned his face before sleeping last night, but there are still small flecks of blood along his jawline. Evidence that last night was not a dream.

In the sitting room, Bahorel is flopped across the mattress Jehan had laid down for him. There is a patch of red staining the mattress under his cheek, no doubt from the nosebleed that must have lasted quite a while. His face is a swollen mess of bruises, and Jehan feels a pang of remorse when his knuckles throb in remembrance of his own assault.

Jehan fetches a small basin full of water and a bucket before sitting down on the mattress behind Bahorel. He gently washes Bahorel's face, trying not to wake the man. His eyes are swollen and purple, and Jehan wishes he could lean down and kiss the bruises away.

The sun is starting to hike up the sky, but it's mostly obscured behind clouds. Bahorel stirs after a while, and Jehan is surprised to see him awaken so early. He tries to open his eyes, but the bruises prove a formidable opponent. He settles for groaning and holding onto one of Jehan's hands.

“There is no rush, my friend,” Jehan whispers, “Return to the world of the living on your own time.”

Bahorel doesn't race to conscious, that's for sure. He rises to wakefulness about as quickly as the sun rises in the sky. Jehan is content to sit with him and stroke his brow until Bahorel can keep his eyes open.

Or at least half open. 

Bahorel looks around for a moment and then says, “I am in your home.”

“Yes, you are.” 

“Why do I hurt so much?”

Jehan has to stifle his laugh. “How much do you remember of last night?”

Bahorel is silent for a few moments. He shakes his head stiffly and says, “I remember running in the rain. . . I think I remember something about candles. . .”

Disappointment sinks its claws into Jehan, piercing his heart. “You remember nothing else?”

“No,” he says, “I think I remember the drinking with Bossuet, though.”

“And Grantaire,” Jehan adds.

They both fall quiet for a few minutes. Bahorel rolls over and shifts so his head is pressed against Jehan's leg. 

“You've got no pants on,” he says.

“Thank you for informing me,” Jehan replies.

Those long fingers trace absent-mindedly across the soft hair on Jehan's calf. “Jehan,” Bahorel asks, “Did you hit me?”

Jehan runs his own soft fingers through Bahorel's hair and says, “Yes, I did.” When Bahorel says nothing, Jehan continues. 

“You were under the influence of so much alcohol that it would have killed someone of my size,” he explains. “You had misplaced common sense in the bottom of a bottle. You. . . Assaulted me.”

Bahorel shoots upright at those words, and regrets it as soon as nausea rushes through his body. Jehan shouts _Bucket!_ and Bahorel finds it just on time.

“I knew this would happen,” Jehan sighs as he leans over Bahorel's shoulder, pushing his hair off of his friend's forehead.

“You should not be doing this for me,” Bahorel grunts. “I deserve no kindness after the way I treated you.” 

Jehan rubs circles across Bahorel's back. “I did not allow you to get very far, and I do not believe you intended to harm me,” he says. “Anyway, I think I emerge the victor, since you are the one with the broken nose.”

A pathetic moan passes Bahorel's lips. It echos harshly in the bucket.

“My fierce little Jehan, always woefully underestimated,” he mutters. Jehan chuckles and says something about going to see Joly as soon as possible. Bahorel nods and vomits and breaks Jehan's heart a little.

-

They set off for Joly's home as soon as Bahorel thinks he is finished filling Jehan's apartment with the stench of vomit. Jehan helps Bahorel get his stiff and sluggish arms back into the still-damp shirt from last night, since Jehan's overly large shirt is completely _ruined_ with Bahorel's blood.

They find their way to Joly's doorstep a little before noon. Musichetta opens the door and instantly ushers them in with a look of pity. Bossuet emerges from around the corner, looking a little ashen but otherwise much better off than Bahorel. He notices the guests in the foyer, takes in the sight before him, and proceeds to laugh his ass off.

“Forgive me, my friend,” he says between giggles. “I do not mean to laugh at your misfortune. But to have your nose broken by _Jehan_ –”

“Jehan is not to be taken so lightly,” Bahorel assures him, sitting in a chair at a small table.

“Oh, of course not,” Bossuet says, “I just wonder what exactly you may have done to inspire his wrath.”

Bahorel snorts and mutters under his breath, “As do I.” Jehan tries not squirm with embarrassment.

When Joly arrives and assess the damage, it is decided that Bahorel's nose is broken and needs to be reset. Musichetta offers her hand and when Bahorel takes it, she kisses the bruised knuckles. Jehan feels a moment of jealousy overcome him before Joly instructs him to stand behind Bahorel.

Jehan winds up holding Bahorel's head still with his palms on either side of the man's cheeks. His fingers press lightly into a bobbing throat and the underside of a sturdy jaw while he braces his thumbs on the strong cheekbones. He strokes Bahorel's face in a way he hopes is gentle and reassuring. Bahorel's head lolls back a bit and he smiles despite the pain and the swelling around his eyes.

Jehan smiles and blushes and looks away. He catches Musichetta's eye, and she is looking at him like she can see every inch of him stripped bare, every though he is thinking.

_Eyes like a fortune teller_ , he remembers Joly saying, and now he understands. She smiles a bit suggestively and nods at Jehan like they are sharing some kind of inside joke. Joly breaks the tension when he declares it is time to fix Bahorel's nose.

Bahorel, to his credit, doesn't cry out. He groans a whole lot and hisses through his teeth like an annoyed cobra, but he does not scream.

When it is finished, Musichetta claps and Bossuet cheers and Joly walks off to wash his hands. Jehan ducks down to look at Joly's handiwork and Bahorel smiles through the bruises and the cuts. He knocks a knuckle against Jehan's chin in a mock punch, and then his smile falls.

“Jehan,” he mutters, “You are sure I did not harm you?”

Jehan is lost. “What do you mean?”

“There is blood, I think, on your chin,” Bahorel says. 

Panic fries Jehan's brain a little. _I forgot to clean the remaining blood from my face._

“There is,” Bossuet says, “Right below your mouth and along your jaw.”

Jehan runs his hand across his jaw and says, “Ah, it must be from Bahorel. You should have seen it, how he bled.”

Bossuet claps Jehan on the shoulder and says, “I shall take this as a lesson to never make _you_ angry.”

Jehan forces a smile, but shifts uncomfortably under the looks Bahorel and Musichetta are giving him. Bahorel looks inquisitive, as if Jehan were some riddle for him to figure out. Musichetta looks like she knows the answer.

The five of them have lunch together, and Jehan is aware of the two pairs of eyes scrutinizing him the entire time. He thinks that those eyes will search him until they find out what happened last night, and then Jehan won't know what to do.

Thankfully, Joly distracts everyone when he asks, “Bahorel, why are you wearing Bossuet's trousers?”


	6. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan has an internal Big Gay Panic and Courfeyrac sets him straight. Well maybe not _straight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 41 kudos are you guys serious where are you all coming from (and why aren't you writing glorious Jehan/Bahorel) fksadlflk oh gosh but thank you guys!

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

A week has passed since the nose indecent. Jehan and Bahorel both have endured their fair share of teasing, though they've seen little of each other since that evening. Jehan isn't avoiding Bahorel or anything.

That would be silly.

“ _Urfgh_ ,”

“What was that, dear?”

Jehan rolls over onto his back and looks up at the sky. The clouds mar the perfect blue canvas like bruises and cuts. Jehan has been thinking of everything in terms of blood lately. The blood of martyrs, the blood of lovers.

He'd be content to write love notes to the sky all day, but Courfeyrac throws a twig at his head. Jehan looks back at Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised and unimpressed.

“Ah, there you are,” Courfeyrac says, “I thought I had lost you.”

“Not as much as I have lost myself,” Jehan says. Courfeyrac looks puzzled.

“Perhaps I could help you find your way?”

“Perhaps.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, the sounds of birds and bugs and rushing water filling the gaps in conversation. Courfeyrac is leaning against a tree with an open book in his lap. Jehan is sitting by the river bank a few feet away, his mind far too occupied up with other thoughts to read anything.  The more time he spends thinking about his current situation, the more unsure he feels.

After a while, Jehan groans again. He turns onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows, looking at Courfeyrac in the shade. He waits a moment and says, “Courfeyrac, may I ask you something?” 

“Why, of course.”

“You have. . . Had your fair share of lovers,” Jehan begins, “Have you ever found yourself desiring someone you cannot have?”

Courfeyrac smiles slyly. “Has Jehan finally found himself a girl he loves as much as the flowers?”

Fighting back trepidation, Jehan mutters, “Something like that.” 

“Is she married?” Courfeyrac asks.

“No, no, that is not the problem at all,” Jehan assures him. “It is just that it would be considered. . . Improper if the two of us were to become lovers.”

Courfeyrac scratches his chin and appears to dive deeply into thought. Jehan dreads that he might find out the truth. Then Courfeyrac asks if this girl, this person, feels the same way about Jehan. It takes him a moment to answer, but he says that yes, he thinks so.

“Then let me tell you something, something that _you_ should already know,” Courfeyrac closes his book and leans in. “There are few things in this world more important than love. Anyone who says that you cannot love somebody for whatever reason is not someone that you should concern yourself with in the first place. As long as your love harms nobody, as long as it is true, you must act upon it, or risk losing it. If you think that this person will return your affection, you must jump on the opportunity to have them. There is no sense in waiting for Eros to take action. Find this person and give them your heart, before another does so first.”

_Before another does so first._ Jehan is reminded of the ugly sensation that stormed his senses when Musichetta kissed Bahorel's knuckles. Surely she meant nothing by it, she was just providing comfort. That thought does little to silence the envy that tears through Jehan at the memory. 

“But what if I'm wrong,” Jehan asks, “What if he does not actually care for me as I care for him?”

There is silence, for a moment, and then Courfeyrac grins with obvious glee. Jehan feels a horrible lurch in his stomach as he claps a hand over his mouth.

“I did not mean to say – ”

“Shhh,” Courfeyrac hushes him, “It is alright." 

“It is _not_ alright! It is wrong and terrible and filthy and –”

“Jehan, _please_ quiet down,” Courfeyrac says. “I told you, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your desires.” 

Jehan doesn't look convinced. He falls distressingly quiet and Courfeyrac gives him some time to think before saying, “It is Bahorel, yes?”

Had Joly been present, he would be fearing for Jehan's health. The poor boy's face is burning and his breath is coming in short, quick pants. He look like he is going to cry. Courfeyrac can't keep his laughter in. 

Horror twists Jehan's face up. “Do not laugh, this is serious,” he hisses. “How foolish I have been to be so obvious!”

Courfeyrac pulls a gasping breath into his lungs, trying to quell his laughter. “Jehan, please,” he starts, “Only a trained eye could notice the way you two act around each other. I'm sure everyone else is oblivious.”

“The way we act?” Jehan is looking no less horrified. 

A few more snickers rock Courfeyrac's frame before he crawls over to where Jehan has buried his face in the grass. He tugs on some of Jehan's wavy locks to get him to look up. Courfeyrac has sobered a bit as he looks down at Jehan with a small smile.

“Do you really think that loving Bahorel is somehow wrong?”

Jehan pauses a moment. He has been branded a queer by men who don't even know him, men who have only seen his face and made assumptions. He has heard whispers of sin and sodomites and scorn. But he has also heard of love, and love could not be so wrong, could it?

Then, in a small voice, Jehan asks, “Is it not?”

Courfeyrac sighs, in a good natured kind of way. “You of all people should know that it is not. Your fear is fogging your mind. What happened to brave Jehan?”

Jeahn knows that the last remark is teasing, yet it feels like a knife in his heart. _Bahorel likes it when I am brave_ , he thinks, _I will show him just how unafraid I can be_.

_And damn what anyone else thinks._

Courfeyrac smooths Jehan's hair back and smiles with as much tenderness as he can muster.

“Go to him.” 

So Jehan decides he will.

- 

The moon is high and bright tonight. Jehan heads straight for his writing desk the moment he arrives home. All of the windows are open and a soft breeze chills his heated skin as he searches through stacks of paper until – ah, there it is.

The garbled prose he wrote about hands and hair is tucked away semi-secretly, as if he was afraid someone would find it. Even now, so long after the words were written, Jehan feels a dangerous thrill dancing under his skin as he reads over the paper for what has to be the hundredth time.

He sets to work, taking words out and putting words in. Not once does he allow himself to write the name _Bahorel_ , but he describes the man's hands in glorious detail. Those lovely, wicked hands are outlined beautifully under Jehan's pen.

At the end of the night, there is still much work to be done.  The basic groundwork has been laid down, though, and all it will take is some polishing before it's finished.  Jehan blushes as he reads over his work.  It comes off a thinly-veiled pornography, but it's beautiful thinly-veiled pornography. Jehan thinks it might be some of his best work yet.  


	7. Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan learns that good deeds can have bad consequences and that gardens are no good for sleeping in if you're aiming for comfort.

“Okay! Pamphlets are made, the next disturbance of the peace has been scheduled, and my designated drinking partner is currently out of commission,” Bahorel nudges Grantaire's sleeping body and scans the room a moment before adding, “Feuilly, let us drink!”

“I apologize, but I have an early day tomorrow,” Feuilly smiles sympathetically. “Perhaps some other night.”

Bahorel looks put out for a minute before patting Feuilly on the back and making rounds through the Musain to enlist other men to set out on a night of drunken debauchery.

Jehan takes a deep breath and volunteers.

“You?” Bahorel asks. He looks surprised but not displeased. He smiles as soon as Jehan offers, and the small gap between his front teeth becomes visible. It's _adorable_.

“I,” Jehan affirms. Bahorel throws an arm over Jehan's shoulders, pulling him out the door and into the street. Some men follow behind them like a family of thirsty ducks, but Jehan pays them no mind when Bahorel starts speaking excitedly about nothing and everything.

He might not be as radiant as Enjolras, as unendingly friendly as Courfeyrac, as diligent as Feuilly, but Bahorel is beautiful to Jehan all the same.

-

The tavern they choose is quite full, though it's not as rowdy as some of the other rare nights when Jehan would follow Bossuet or Bahorel or another group of friends to a bar. There are people everywhere, standing and sitting and drunkenly dancing. Thankfully, Bahorel is friends with half the bar. Finding a place to sit isn't the hard part, _getting_ to the seat is.

With a hand on the small of Jehan's back, Bahorel leads them through the crowd.

They aren't even through the first round of drinks and Bahorel has already almost started two fights and got one proposition from a young woman. He is certainly having a more eventful night than Jehan, who is perfectly happy to sit and observe. 

Bahorel must not be convinced, though, because at one point he leans over and murmurs in Jehan's ear, “You do not need to stay here to please me. I know this isn't your preferred company.”

Jehan waves him off. “I assure you, I am perfectly content. Sometimes I enjoy this kind of companionship.”

Though Bahorel looks a bit unsure, he returns to his drink. When it's time to buy the second round, everyone nominates Jehan to get the job done. He feels like he's being taken advantage of but he doesn't protest, just laughs a little incredulously and starts to stand up. Someone catches his hand before he can get too far, though, and he knows even before turning around that it's Bahorel.

“Do you want any assistance?”

“Thank you,” Jehan says, “But I should be fine.”

Bahorel flashes a smile and gives Jehan a squeeze before letting him go. Jehan does his best to push through the mass of drunks to get all the way over to the bar where he's sure as hell enlisting the help of an employee to carry the drinks back.

Or at least he would, if he ever got there.

A powerful hand grabs him by the elbow, and even though he is sober, he is not strong enough to pull away. Hands tangle in his hair and his face hits the wall when he hears someone shout, _over here!_  

Jehan considers explaining to these men that he has a friend who would be perfectly pleased to brawl with them, but he is manhandled into another man's arms before he can speak. This isn't the start to a braw, but a beat-down. 

“This is him alright,” a fat one says, right next to Jehan's ear. He thrashes, shaking his head back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the man behind him. “Pretty as I remember him, too.”

Jehan freezes as a memory resurfaces. The round hands, the foul stench, the awful raspy voice, this is the man who Jehan caught trying to molest a girl the first time Bahorel took him to a bar.

And now he's bending Jehan over a table, pushing his face down onto the rough wood.

“Not in here, you fuckin' idiot!” a voice hisses. “Someone is gonna catch us. Owner won't take kindly to blood on the floor.”

“Let 'em see,” the man grunts. “Hell, let 'em join us. It's a decent man's duty to punish little shits like this.” 

Jehan tries to fight against the repulsive hands holding him in place when the man leans down and whispers, “Now hold still. Ten, twenty lashes, and maybe we'll let you go back to playing pretty little mistress for your beaus over there.”

Jehan starts to wriggle and cry out at that, fighting as hard as he can against the arms holding him in place. “We ain't gonna get away with this in here, we gotta take him outside!” someone urges from his left.

The man behind Jehan says to be quiet, to quit bitching. Jehan isn't sure if the man is talking to him or to one of the others huddled around the table. He orders someone to hand him a knife, and Jehan is greeted to the sight of a long, thin blade. He realizes at once that they're going to beat him with it, they're going to stripe him, probably along his thighs, maybe his back if they're cruel, right here in the bar.

And nobody around seems to care. By the time someone _does_ take notice, there will be grotesque gashes in Jehan's pale skin, red dripping all along the back of his thighs, painful and messy and ugly all over his clothing.

Screaming, Jehan jerks his body violently, trying to throw the larger man off of him. He searches his brain for names of men he recognized at the table and screams _Théo! Gabriel! Fabron!_  

There are more hands on him now, holding him down and tearing at his jacket and waistcoat. The men are laughing and hollering and having the time of their lives. Someone gets one side of his suspenders off when he shouts _Bahorel!_ and brings the heel of his foot down on the lecher's toes.

The man yowls, jerks back, and Jehan manages to wiggle free. Someone grabs him from behind, coving his mouth, but Jehan bites down on a finger hard enough to make his own teeth throb. Hands scrabble after him, but he throws elbows and punches and refuses to give in.

Jehan crosses his arms in front of his face when the blade they intend to beat him with is thrust toward his head, but the blow never comes. Instead, his ears are greeted with a familiar voice shouting some of the most colorful insults they've ever heard. 

Jehan opens his eyes to see that Bahorel already has one of the assailants on the floor. The man scrambles away before any more damage can be done, and Bahorel yanks Jehan close by his cravat, draging them into a corner away from the fight that is building around them.

“They hurt you,” he breathes. “Those bastards hurt you.”

Jehan ducks in close, avoiding the flailing limbs now that the bar has broken out in a melee. Bahorel runs a thumb over a sore spot on Jehan's forehead, and his hand comes away bloody. Wonderful.

“It was the same man,” Jehan starts through panting breaths, “The same man from all those weeks ago who I witnessed molesting a girl.”

Bahorel pauses, breathing hard. Then he asks, “The man we fought in the bar?”

When Jehan nods his head, Bahorel hisses, “I will fucking _kill him_.” He pulls away to find the old pervert when Jehan grabs him by the arm. 

“Please,” he pleads, “Leave it tonight.”

“ _Leave it_?” Bahorel roars. Jehan is startled at the unrestrained anger. He starts to speak when Bahorel cuts him off.

“He recognized you, he hurt you,” Bahorel wraps his hand around the suspender that hasn't been pulled down and adds, “He started to _undress_ _you_ , Jehan, he was going to do something terrible to you, he was going to–”

“I know that!” Jehan bellows over the din. “They were going to beat me, cut me, whatever else, you don't have to tell me that, _I know_!”

Bahorel's face goes blank for a moment. He clenches his jaw, evens out his breathing, and closes his eyes. Quiet rage and disgust overcome him, and he leans down to whisper in Jehan's ear. 

“Then I will make sure they can _never_ touch you again.” 

Jehan fists his hands in Bahorel's sleeves to keep him close, pleading with him to _please do not just come on lets go home we do not need to spark a conflict over this really he is probably already gone you will never find him he will never find me again please_ but Bahorel is pulling away and disappearing in the mob of people with one of the most terrifyingly determined faces Jehan has ever seen.

-

Jehan somehow manages to make his way outside without getting elbowed in the face. Once he's found his way to the cool night air, he considers going home. Instead, he sits in front of the tavern and waits for Bahorel to come out. It doesn't take long, one of the men who helped hold Jehan down comes flying out the front door with Bahorel right behind him. 

Bahorel gets his forearm around the man's neck, effectively bringing him to the ground. Jehan lunges, grabbing Bahorel's arm, and gets slammed against a wall for his trouble. His head smacks the bricks and he sees stars.

“Oh dear,” he mumbles. Bahorel curses loudly and takes Jehan's face in his hands.

“Forgive me,” he says, “I act on impulse. Have I broken you, Jehan?” 

Jehan shakes his head and regrets it when needles drill into his temples. Bahorel looks ashamed until the man he clotheslined groans pitifully from the ground. Bahorel spins around and remembers why he is angry.

“And _you_ –”

“Hey, hey,” the man scrambles to his feet, “We wasn't gonna hurt him or nothing, just –”

Bahorel illustrates just how much he cares when he grabs the man by the back of the neck and starts punching him in the stomach. Jehan is slightly horrified, but not really because this is the behavior he's come to expect from an enraged Bahorel. He runs up and wraps an arm around Bahorel's middle, begging him to calm down.

To his credit, Bahorel stops punching and turns to look at Jehan. He's still got one large hand wrapped around the back of the beaten man's neck and his fist is in the air like he's ready to throw another punch, but he _does_ stop. 

There is silence for a moment because Jehan is tired of saying _please, Bahorel_. They look at each other, one pair of eyes expectant and irritated, the other imploring and sad.

“Follow me,” Jehan says, and it's more of a demand than a request. Bahorel sighs and releases his grip on the nameless man and allows Jehan to pull him close by the wrist. The man shrinks away and starts yelling at them, awful slurs and insults, but Jehan drags Bahorel from the temptation and satisfaction of a beating.

Sounds of the scuffle in the bar echo through the streets like a love letter addressed to Bahorel, but he doesn't struggle as Jehan pulls him farther and farther away.

- 

When Bahorel declares that he has no idea where they are, Jehan decides it's probably a good time to stop. The scrape on his forehead has quit bleeding and Bahorel doesn't look like he's ready to murder everyone who glances at Jehan, so the two of them are doing quite well given the circumstances. 

They're in some overgrown garden that looks like it hasn't been tended to in years. Even the buildings around it look like they have been vacant for some time. Without warning, Jehan pulls Bahorel down into the grass and weeds and flowers.

They lay there together looking up at the stars. Jehan is left breathless by just how many there are. They stretch over the sky like dandelions caught in the wind. Jehan wonders what it would like to be a star, to be something so strange and so beautiful. To be able to make people feel a sense of wonder just by existing.

“Why were you so intent on stopping me?” Bahorel asks, turning Jehan's attention away from the stars. “You had no qualms with confronting him yourself weeks ago.”

“It was different then,” Jehan says. “That woman did not deserve to be treated in such a way.”

“And _you_ did?” Bahorel spits the words like they burn his tongue. Jehan almost says, _yes, yes I did_. The things they said to him, the names they called him, they weren't wrong. Jehan feels filthy when he remembers the way those hands felt shoving him over the table. For a fleeting second, when they were pulling at his clothing, Jehan was terrified that they were going to spread his legs and take him right there. Even worse, though, was the thought that maybe they would be justified in doing so.

But then Courfeyrac's words wash over him, and he turns his thoughts away from such things.

“Perhaps I did deserve it,” Jehan says anyway. “Perhaps they were not wrong.”

Bahorel snorts. “If that is what you think, then you really are the biggest fool I know.” Jehan can't tell if he's being complemented or insulted, so he just continues speaking.

“I think, most of all, I pity them. I want them to be able to walk out of the tavern on a night like this and look up at the sky,” he says. “I want them to see all of the stars and be awestruck by their magnificence. I want them to see how beautiful it all is through eyes that are not bruised and bloodied by your hand –”

Bahorel entwines their pinky fingers, and Jehan has a brief out-of-body experience. He forgets where he is, what he is talking about, why he is laying in a patch of weeds. All he knows is the feeling of Bahorel's strong fingers laced awkwardly with his.

“Surely,” Bahorel clears his throat, “Surely, there is beauty to be had in bruises.”

“Oh, of course,” Jehan hurriedly says, “There is beauty in all things. Flowers and fire and birds and blood, it is all beautiful.”

“Even death?” Bahorel asks.

“Even death.” Jehan answers.

Bahorel doesn't speak for a long time. Jehan looks over and notices he is studying the sky.

“What do you see up there?” Jehan asks.

Bahorel ignores him. “I still treat you like a child,” he says, “Because I still remember the first time I saw you on your knees in the dirt.”

Well.

Jehan isn't expecting that. He rolls onto his side, keeping their fingers together, and pushes Bahorel's wild hair out of his eyes. Bahorel rolls over, too, and then they are both staring at each other while holding hands and lying in scratchy grass on top of dying flowers in an abandoned garden in a part of Paris that neither of them are familiar with.

It's slightly absurd.

“I am a man,” Jehan reminds him, “Just like you.”

Bahorel averts his eyes and laughs. “You do not need to tell me that,” he says. “I am _well_ aware.”

“Then you are also aware that you do not need to protect me,” Jehan continues. “I can fight my own battles.” 

Bahorel's smile falls and he pointedly looks anywhere but Jehan's face. “Not this battle,” he mutters, “Not these men.”

That makes something ugly and rotten rise up in Jehan. “And what does _that_ mean? You think me so weak that I cannot even _defend_ myself?

“Jehan, no, listen –”

“No, _you_ listen,” Jehan barks, sitting up with a sort of anger that is foreign to him. “You may jest about how delicate and pretty I am, but I am no less of a man than you or anyone else who thinks so little of me.”

As Jehan rants, Bahorel pushes himself up onto one elbow. “Jehan, _stop_ ,” he says, “I meant no offense, just that you are rather different from many men, that –”

“I apologize that I have the _gall_ to be a man who is not overtly strong,” he spits. “To be a man and yet be what people do not expect. I am not a man who delights in brawling and gambling and whoring, but I am still a man! Not Jehan the Woman, Jehan the Queer –”

And then he becomes Jehan the Flat on his Ass.

The wind is knocked out of him, effectively ending his rant. Bahorel's got one knee on the ground between his legs and a broad hand across his clavicle, holding him down. Jehan trembles and coughs, both excited and afraid of how livid Bahorel looks now.

Bahorel leans in close, an intimidation tactic, but Jehan has nowhere to go. “I have never thought of you in such a way,” he bites out, gruff and unhappy. “ _Do not_ group me with the sort of men who would.”

He doesn't move away, even after Jehan fails to respond. The air between them is tense, almost palpably thick, and Jean struggles to breathe. It seems as though life in Paris has been extinguished around them. There are no dogs barking or cats yowling, no babies crying or men screaming, no laughter and no tears. Even nature seems to have come to a standstill.

Finally, Jehan speaks. “There were things said tonight. Things that made me think, perhaps. . . I don't know,” he pauses, then adds, “Bahorel, you are hurting me.”

Bahorel jerks back immediately. “Forgive me,” he mutters, and Jehan lets out a deep breath. For a while, neither of them moves. Bahorel stays straddling one of Jehan's thighs, his hands hanging at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. He turns his face to the sky once again, and Jehan hopes he is appreciating just how wonderful the stars really are.

Instead of asking Bahorel about the sky, he asks, “Must you turn everything into a scuffle?”

“You started it, you wretch,” Bahorel mutters, his eyes still on the stars.

“No,” Jehan says, “I started an argument. _You_ started a scuffle.”

Bahorel lets his head drop and shows off an honest to god grin. He flops onto his side, pulling Jehan with him. Their knees weave together, stacked awkwardly in the overgrown grass. “I don't particularly like fighting with you,” he mutters, and Jehan feels mildly insulted.

“Why not?”

“You are no good for fights,” he says, “You always best me. You are a fierce one, Jehan”

He reaches somewhere behind Jehan's head and plucks an abused flower from the earth. It's a viola, blue with a splash of yellow staining its petals. Bahorel brings it to his nose, but looks unimpressed. Then he gently tucks it behind Jehan's ear like an apology. 

Jehan is pretty sure he's going to pass out or throw up or melt or die. This is different from the night Bahorel tried to kiss him, much different.

“You like them, flowers?” Bahorel runs his fingertips down Jehan's jaw before letting his hand drop to the grass. Jehan smiles like an idiot and tries to burry his face in the earth to hide his blush. All in all, it's not a bad resolution to the fight.

“I like them,” Jehan mutters. Bahorel's laugher rings softly in his head as he stifles a yawn. They speak a while longer about fights and flowers and how wonderful the viola looks right next to the bits of dry blood on Jehan's forehead. The moon starts swinging lower and lower, enveloping them in its bright glow. They talk until their conversation is more yawns than words, and they trip over their tongues in clumsy weariness.

 _Bahorel yawns like a dog,_ Jehan thinks. It's obnoxious and wide but he can't help but find it endearing. It's so late that Jehan's sleep deprived brain thinks everything Bahorel does is endearing. He knows he should sleep, he should crawl out of the garden and find some inn for them to stay at, but he doesn't want to stop watching Bahorel speak. So he fights his tiredness, but finds he cannot fight it forever.

With eyelids like lead, Jehan succumbs to sleep.

-

Falling asleep in an abandoned garden in an unfamiliar part of Paris with someone you just happen to be smitten with seems like a wonderful idea until the waking up part.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Mmmhm.”

“We should get up soon.”

“I do not think I can move, my body is too stiff.”

“Then I will carry you.”

“You would have to actually get on your feet first.”

Bahorel, who is lying on his back, turns his head to glare at Jehan. The sun is shining right in his eyes, though, and its hard to glare and squint at the same time. Jehan laughs at his poor attempt and Bahorel smiles sleepily, throwing an arm over his eyes.

It takes some time, but they do eventually find their way out of the garden and to a familiar street. Jehan speaks up at one point about how strange he feels walking around in nothing but an undershirt and suspenders, so Bahorel gives his coat over. The sleeves are way too long and Jehan is in danger of being swallowed by the fabric and disappearing altogether, but it's appreciated.

Later that night, Jehan makes a few quick additions to his poem. It's almost finished now.


	8. Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan works up the nerve to show Bahorel his poem, and the author finally gets to use the "Resolved Sexual Tension" tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while! I've got three papers due this week so those have been killing me. I might get the next chapter up pretty soon but I'm ridiculously lazy so ehhh.

God, Enjolras is beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that transcends his body. It's as if the room itself becomes more vibrant when he stands up and speaks. Jehan watches with reverence as he seizes each man's attention with words of resistance, speaking so passionately and eloquently that Jehan is nearly robbed of breath. _He could be a poet_ , Jehan thinks, _he could be absolutely brilliant with a pen in his hand_.

The meeting goes on for quite a while. Everyone is still scuffling amongst themselves, there is always a disagreement from somebody about something. But they try as hard as they can to keep everything organized, to make sure they aren't reduced to angry brutes.

When the meeting is adjourned, half the room disperses and Jehan turns to look at the crowd of men milling about. He sees Bahorel then, speaking with Combeferre at the back of the room.

_Ask him!_ Jehan's mind screams, _Ask him before it is too late and he loses interest!_

Instead, Jehan snaps his head back around and takes three steady breaths. There is a small internal battle being fought in his head, and he finds himself wondering if confronting Bahorel is a good idea.

_He is big, he could kill me with a glance. He might think I'm disgusting if he finds out. This is an abysmal idea –_

“Jehan! I was wondering if you had attended tonight. I came in rather late myself.”

_Lovely._

Bahorel tugs at Jehan's ponytail and grins in the most infuriatingly charming way. Jehan would swat his hand away if he wasn't afraid of touching him. He _does_ try to smile, though it's rather lopsided and small.

“Ah,” Bahorel says, “You look rather despondent, I will not bother you tonight.”

He steps away and Jehan hurriedly tugs on his coat sleeve. “No, please,” he says, “I would ask something of you. If you are not busy, that is.”

There is curiosity in the tilt of Bahorel's head and the angle of his smile as he says, “Yes, of course.”

“I wrote something,” Jehan starts, trying to keep the shaking from his hands and the blush from his cheeks, “And I would very much appreciate it if you would review it for me.”

“Me?” Bahorel asks, and he is genuinely surprised. “Why not Courfeyrac, or perhaps Joly?”

“I think you might find that the subject is rather relevant to. . . _You_.”

Bahorel smiles at Jehan's fumbling. “Well then, let's see it.”

“That is the problem,” Jehan tries to look bashful, “I left it at home.”

“You would have me back in your apartment,” Bahorel says, “Even after how disastrous our last adventure was?”

Jehan looks away and smiles. “I assure you, I have cleansed it throughly and it no longer stinks of your illness.”

“Well then,” Bahorel pulls Jehan to his feet, “Let us take our leave.”

-

Bahorel is situated comfortably in an armchair, drinking the water Jehan offered him (water, because Jehan wants his head to be as clear as possible tonight). They make smalltalk, and it's all so casual that there is no reason for suspicion on Bahorel's part. Jehan wonders if it is too late to pull out, to make some excuse. This night could end disastrously, awkwardly, or wonderfully.

But no, Jehan goes into his bedroom and fetches the poem he's spent the last week meticulously editing to perfection. He tries to mask his trepidation with a smile that Bahorel returns, and then he hands over the poem.

“You intend for me to read a novel?” Bahorel jokes. Jehan just sits in the chair opposite him and observes.

The first few moments are quite dull. Bahorel does not react until the second page, and his reaction is nothing but a small inquisitive noise in the back of his throat. Jehan feels tension in each muscle, anxiety in each breath. He curls his toes in his shoes, and waits.

After a moment, Bahorel begins to show more of a response. His breath audibly catches, and continues to be labored through the rest of the poem. At one point he takes his bottom lip between his teeth and closes his eyes for a moment, as if to regain some composure. He starts shifting around in the chair like he can't find a comfortable place to sit.

When he crosses his legs, Jehan feels victorious. When he breathes out a small, ragged moan, Jehan _knows_ he has won.

Bahorel is courteous enough to read the poem to the end. When he is finished, he puts the papers down in the end table, takes a drink of water, and closes his eyes.

Jehan is slightly hesitant as he stands and begins to move forward. “Did you like it?” he asks. Bahorel uncrosses his legs and opens his eyes. They're sharp and clear, not glassed over with drunkenness. There is an unmistakable hunger in the way he looks up from beneath his bangs.

“Come _here_ ,” he growls, and pulls Jehan in by the hips.

Jehan lets out a surprised yelp and winds up sprawled over Bahorel, practically sitting in his lap. One of his hands rests on the back of the chair, the other is clamped down on a strong shoulder. Bahorel nuzzles Jehan's chest and runs his massive hands up and down the backs of Jehan's thighs. Jehan shudders against the smooth drag and tries to even out his breathing. 

“Bahorel?”

“I tire of the way we dance around each other,” he mumbles, “We should have done this long ago.”

Jehan gets a hand in his hair and tugs back until Bahorel is looking up at him. “We did,” Jehan says, “Or at least, you tried.”

Bahorel's hands still on Jehan's thighs and it's clear that he doesn't understand. Jehan takes a deep breath and continues, “The night I broke your nose, you didn't try to fight me. You – how should I say this – You were very eager to bed me that night. Though I did not allow you to advance past rough kisses, and you do not seem to remember it at all.”

Bahorel looks down, as if ashamed. “I forced myself on you –”

“ _Well_ , not entirely. . .”

“– And you are still willing to have me?”

“I _asked_ to have you,” Jehan says, “But only once you were sober. Unfortunately, you seem to remember nothing of that night.”

Bahorel's fingers dig into Jehan's thighs. “What did I do?” he asks, and he sounds more excited than ashamed.

“You were horrible,” Jehan mutters teasingly, “An absolute menace. Each kiss tasted so strongly of wine that I feared I too would become intoxicated.” 

Bahorel moves his hands to the top of Jehan's thighs and pushes down, forcing Jehan to sit with his full weight in Bahorel's lap. When Bahorel leans in for a kiss, Jehan turns his head away with a soft laugh. He wraps both of his arms around Bahorel's shoulders and starts to move his hips in small circles as Bahorel mouths along his jawline. When he speaks, his voice is low, “I thought, perhaps, you were going to ravage me right there.”

Bahorel kisses his way from Jehan's jaw down his neck, stopping to suck at his collar bone. Jehan grabs Bahorel's chin, forcing him to look up. “After I hit you, after you bled all over,” he leans back when Bahorel tries to kiss him again, “I took your face in my hands like this –”

“And then you kissed me,” Bahorel breathes. “That's why there was blood on your face. _I knew it_.”

Jehan abruptly stops the movement of his hips. He's almost annoyed. “Why did you say nothing?” 

“ _Jehan_ ,” Bahorel groans, “Please, just let me kiss you.”

It's almost sweet, the way he begs. Jehan decides to be merciful. With his fingers still holding Bahorel steady, he leans down a few inches and finally grants the man a kiss.

_God_ , it's good.

Not good in the mechanical sense, it gets sloppy and rough pretty fast. They're both hungry and desperate and almost angry that it took them so long to get to this point, that they spent so much time fucking around without the actual fucking around.

But it's good, because Bahorel is licking his way into Jehan's mouth and Jehan is biting Bahorel's bottom lip and Bahorel is gasping and palming Jehan's ass with those beautiful hands. There is no fear, no anxiety, and the roughness is welcome.

Bahorel starts sucking kisses all along Jehan's neck, too eager to care if he leaves a mark. Jehan doesn't mind as he grinds down onto Bahorel's lap and make little half-whimpers in the back of his throat. As long as Bahorel's hands keep groping and sliding and squeezing, Jehan doesn't give a fuck if his entire body winds up covered in red marks.

In fact, he might rather enjoy that.

One of Bahorel's hands moves to the front of Jehan's trousers, and Jehan gasps. He didn't expect it to get this far, not so quickly, but that doesn't stop him from pulling them off the armchair muttering _bed, bed._ They only get a few steps before Bahorel has Jehan's back against a wall.

He starts to wriggle and protest when Bahorel yanks at his waistcoat and shirt, but melts when a knee presses in between his legs. He feels filthy when he starts to rut against Bahorel's strong thigh. Filthy, but amazing.

Bahorel has Jehan's shirt untucked and the only thing keeping it from falling to the floor is the way it bunches around Jehan's bent elbows. There is a manic sort of dishevelment to the way his hair is standing up at odd angles and how his breath quivers on each exhale. He feels like he is going to go mad when Bahorel kisses him quickly before ducking down to trail his lips across a smooth torso. Stubble scratches skin and Jehan shivers at the texture.

Two strong arms find their way around Jehan's middle, pulling him in closer as Bahorel mouths hotly along Jehan's collar bone. Jehan writhes in Bahorel's arms, rutting obscenely against his leg. He feels it then, an unmistakable hardness against his hip. Bahorel leans in close enough for their noses to touch and asks, “May I?”

Jehan doesn't know what he's being asked, but he nods anyway. 

And then Bahorel starts to undo Jehan's trousers.

Alright then.

Jehan moves to help, but his hands are swatted away. The flap of his trousers comes open and Bahorel drops to his knees.

Now hold on a second.

“Bahorel, what –”

“Want to taste you,” he mutters with his mouth against Jehan's exposed stomach. “Please.”

This is unexpected. But who is Jehan to deny a parched man water? He threads his fingers through Bahorel's hair and pushes him in close. Bahorel gives his thanks with enthusiastic kisses along Jehan's hipbones as he pulls the pants farther and farther down.

“For a moment, I was afraid you were having second thoughts,” Bahorel says.

Jehan kicks his trousers and boots away as he says, “So long as you continue in this way, I will never want you from my side.”

Bahorel smiles up at him, and its that predatory grin that sets fires under Jehan's skin. “In _this_ way?” Bahorel asks, and kisses Jehan's lower stomach, his hip bones, the trail of hair starting under his belly button, but nowhere near his cock. Jehan is quick to understand.

“I suppose I would not mind if you were to move you attention downward. . .”

“Here?” Bahorel asks, and kisses the spot right above where Jehan's public hair starts to grow.

“Lower,”

“Here?” Bahorel asks, and dips down to bite the inside of Jehan's thigh.

“ _Ah_!” Jehan gasps, “You know what I mean!”

“I'm afraid I do not,” Bahorel runs his hands up and down Jehan's legs as he smiles up like a fox, “You are going to have to tell me what you want.”

Jehan makes a wild, angry noise in the back of his throat and thumps his head against the wall. This teasing bastard is trying to make him _beg_. Bahorel lowers his head and Jehan thinks he's going to weep with relief, but Bahorel simply presses his nose into the hair there and  _breathes_.

That feels good, too good, and Jehan fears he might go mad before Bahorel puts that mouth to use. In frustration, he tightens his hold on Bahorel's hair and whines, “ _Please_!”

“Please what, my dear Jehan?”

“My cock, you bastard,” Jehan grits out, “Your mouth –”

“What rude language for such a sweet little poet.”

Jehan groans and Bahorel laughs against his skin. It's infuriating and kind of arousing and tickles a little. Jehan is considering tugging on Bahorel's hair again when he feels lips finally, _finally_ touch the base of his cock.

_Oh_.

One of Bahorel's hands holds Jehan's hip steady. The other holds his cock as Bahorel kisses and sucks his way to the tip. Jehan's fingers clench and uncurl in Bahorel's hair like a cat as he tries his best to not just force himself down Bahorel's throat.

When Bahorel licks the head of his cock, he can't help the high whimper in the back of his throat. He's more prepared when he feels light, teasing suction, but it's so good that it startles a ragged moan out of him regardless. 

Bahorel pulls away and looks up at Jehan from underneath the flop of hair on his forehead. There is spit and precome shining on his bottom lip, and Jehan doesn't think before he's swiping his thumb across it. Bahorel leans forward and takes the thumb in his mouth, running his tongue from the flat of the pad around to the fingernail. Then he pulls back, taking Jehan's hand and putting it atop his own head.

Jehan doesn't need any farther explanation. He grips Bahorel's hair and pulls, groaning when Bahorel finally takes more of his cock. It feels hot, so much hotter than Jehan expected. He's aware of himself burning up inside whenever he hears the obscene wet sounds of Bahorel's mouth, sees the way Bahorel's lips stretch around his cock, feels the way Bahorel's tongue slides against him. Bahorel works more and more of Jehan into his mouth until his nose is buried in the light hair at the base of Jehan's cock, and it's _perfect_. 

And those hands, those beautiful hands, are running up and down Jehan's hips, digging fingernails into pale skin and scratching hard enough to leave red streaks in their wake. Jehan wants him to press harder, wants him to leave bruises on the soft skin that will remain for days. Jehan wants Bahorel to treat his body like a virgin canvas, all plain and clear and woefully free of markings.

And then Bahorel stops.

He pulls off to the tip, letting Jehan's cock rest against his lips. He looks up with those wide pupils and mutters, “Fuck my mouth.”

Jehan nearly breaks at the words.

“Are you certain?” he whispers back, and Bahorel just opens his mouth wider.

Jehan is hesitant at first. He's awkward and unsure, but he finds his rhythm once Bahorel grabs his ass and pulls him in. He holds Bahorel's unruly hair and rolls his hips forward, groaning as he feels the head of his cock rub against the roof of Bahorel's mouth.

It's strange, having Bahorel on his knees. Even from such a submissive position he looks almost militant and defiant, but determined to please. His fingers knead and scratch at Jehan's skin incessantly. Each time Jehan goes a little too far, thrusts a little to hard, Bahorel claws at him and moans. It's a deep, dirty sound that makes Jehan shiver with excitement. 

His toes are curling and his breath is heaving as he rocks forward. He knows he's getting close, he wants to draw this out, but he can't bring himself to stop. The slide of his cock against Bahorel's tongue is too good, too hot. His body is on autopilot as he thrusts steadily and brings one hand down to cup the side of Bahorel's face.

He stops abruptly and tries to pull back, muttering _close, close,_ through heaving breaths. Bahorel doesn't care, he just grabs Jehan's hips and keeps him in place. Jehan tries to move away, but Bahorel isn't letting him go anywhere. He grasps Jehan with enough strength to leave finger-shaped marks, and that is far more arousing than it has any right to be.

It doesn't take long after that. Jehan winds up with his fingers woven in Bahorel's hair, half bent over in an attempt to just stay _upright_. A heavy sensation scorches his body, starting in his cock and branching all the way to his fingers and toes. He tries to keep quiet, tries to stifle his cries, but Bahorel just sucks harder every time a small noise escapes. It's too much, too good, and he can't keep himself from spilling down Bahorel's throat.

By the end of it, he's jittery with the feeling, almost shaken. It feels nothing like it ever did when all he had for company was a spit-slicked hand and the fantasy of strong hands on his body.

Jehan sags back against the wall, panting for breath because _holy shit_. Bahorel keeps dropping little kisses against his softening cock and lower belly, and his stubble makes goosebumps rise on Jehan's skin. It's sweet, in a way, and mostly unexpected from someone like Bahorel. But then again, Bahorel is full of surprised tonight.

What isn't surprising, however, is the way he starts jerking his hips against Jehan's leg in tiny thrusts, almost like a dog. Jehan looks down and gently pulls Bahorel's head back by his hair. His lips are swollen and red and Jehan can tell he's moving his tongue around in his mouth by the way his jaw is working. He swallows then, very slowly, and opens his eyes.

Jehan looks properly scandalized. “You did not. . . Spit it out?”

Bahorel's face breaks out into a grin and he barks out a laugh. He looks about ready to ravish Jehan, but there is an unmistakable twinkle of mirth in his eye. When he moves to stand, he grabs Jehan by the back of his thighs and picks him up off the floor.

In Jehan's defense, he doesn't thrash like an idiot. But he _does_ squeak, and he _does_ hold onto Bahorel's shoulders like he'll fall to his death otherwise. It feels a little bit ridiculous, being carried nude through his own home by another man.

“Bahorel, you will drop me!”

“I cannot _believe_ you think I would do such a thing,” Bahorel laughs, and places Jehan down on the bed. Jehan pulls him down and kisses him hard, tasting a hint of himself. It's not awful, but it's not entirely pleasant. He will need to investigate farther later on.

Bahorel nuzzles in behind Jehan's ear and grinds down against Jehan's hip. His trousers feel rough on Jehan's sensitive, scratched up skin.

“It is unfair,” Jehan says, “That I am nude and you are not.”

“Well, if you want something done,” Bahorel kisses Jehan's chin and leans away, “You must take matters into your own hands.”

Jehan smiles, and does just that.

-

Birds are singing outside his window when Jehan wakes up. Bahorel has a possessive arm curled around his middle and a pair of lips against the back of his neck. It's warm and comfortable and Jehan could easily spend the rest of the day lazing around in Bahorel's arms.

Unfortunately, he's got work to do. The summer is quickly spinning into autumn, and Jehan intends to return to his studies when the leaves begin to fall.

He stretches his legs and revels in the ache around his hips. He gently lifts the sheet off his lower body and surveys the damage.

Not bad.

There are small red marks dotting his pale skin, most of which will fade before evening. He's sore and kind of uncomfortable, but more content than he has been in a long time.

When he tries to get up, Bahorel tightens his grip and groans pathetically. Jehan giggles and struggles away to sit with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. He rolls his neck and yawns as Bahorel throws himself over Jehan's back.

“ _Nngh_ ,” Jehan moans as Bahorel braces on large hand on his torso and tugs him back against a strong chest. “Have to wake up, Bahorel.”

“No,” is the only response verbal response he gets before Bahorel is shifting to bracket his legs around Jehan in a remarkable display of coordination for a man who is still half submerged in sleep. He runs his lips and teeth all along Jehan's shoulders and neck in a failed attempt at kisses, but Jehan appreciates the effort.

Then Bahorel, the devious bastard, starts tickling Jehan and pulling him backwards with his arms and legs. Jehan squeals and fights weakly, aimlessly flailing around. They grapple with each other playfully for a little while, all sluggish and awkward from sleep. Bahorel eventually manages to straddle Jehan, who is pinned flat on his stomach, and tickles the breath out of him.

Jehan cries for mercy and the tickling stops. He fights to catch his breath as Bahorel runs the flat of his palms down the smooth planes of Jehan's back before collapsing half on top of his bedfellow. In that moment, Jehan suddenly loses all motivation to leave his bed.

“I never would have thought you would hold me in such a way,” Jehan says. He doesn't say the word _cuddle_ because what they're doing hardly counts as cuddling.

It has nothing to do with the fact that he's afraid that Bahorel will become bored or disgusted with the domesticity and leave him. Of course not.

“And I did not think a sweet little romantic would seduce me so suddenly.”

“You know what I mean,” Jehan mutters into a pillow.

Bahorel just hums against his skin and asks, “Do you know what I like, Jehan?”

Jehan is afraid he has somehow offended Bahorel, and says, “I simply thought that you would not be quite so. . .  Affectionate after bedding someone –”

“I like pleasure,” Bahorel says, as if Jehan had never spoken, “The pleasure of a fight, the pleasure of fine wine, the pleasure of a beautiful boy in my arms.”

Jehan blushes and squirms as Bahorel laughs against his nape. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Just how many boys have you taken in your arms?”

Bahorel goes quiet and Jehan is afraid that perhaps he should have thought about the consequences of that question before asking it. He knows little about Bahorel's past relationships. Hell, Bahorel could have a mistress and two rent boys waiting for him back home, and Jehan would never know. That thought makes his shoulders tense, his jaw clench, his mind churn with ugly envy.

Bahorel slides up Jehan's body, all lean muscle and coarse hair. He pushes away the hair that has splayed messily across Jehan's face and starts kissing from the brow bone to the chin. Jehan aches at the gentleness.

“I have had men before,” Bahorel says between kisses, “But never one like you, never one so close to the beauty and purity of youth. The men I usually take to my bed are mean and rough, and I am just as mean back.”

Jehan shivers a bit and hesitates before asking, “What about women?”

Bahorel laughs at that, and it sounds so genuinely happy. “I had the most wonderful mistress for two years,” he says. “She was such a charming, lovely woman. Sometimes I think back on our days together and I think maybe I was a bit in love. Sometimes I regret letting her go.”

Forcing the vile jealousy to the back of his mind, Jehan asks what happened to her.

“She and I came to a mutual agreement,” Bahorel explains, “We thought it best to end our relationship when she moved across the sea with her family. Sometimes I feel like I should have followed her, or tried to keep her here.”

“She sounds like quite a wonderful woman,” Jehan says. His voice is dripping with poorly concealed sadness. Bahorel must notice as he rolls onto his side. An arm and leg are still flopped gracelessly over Jehan, keeping him close as Bahorel beings to speak.

“Sometimes, when I look at you, I see her,” Jehan tries not to blush as Bahorel leans close to mutter against his lips. “She was less prone to fickle mood swings, but she was _so_ lovely. Gentle and kind, though fierce and unflinching as well. Terribly stubborn. I spoiled her terribly to keep her spirits up. She was an absolute _terror_ when in a foul mood, though I admit I deserved her rage at times.”

Jehan smiles broadly at the way Bahorel beams in remembrance. This woman must have been something special, something magnificent. As Jehan thinks more about her, he finds himself picturing Bahorel with a beautiful lady in his arms.

Jehan's face slowly falls as he is assaulted by loathsome thoughts. Jealousy doesn't look good on him, so he averts his eyes and tries to keep his face blank. When Bahorel taps his cheek and whistles to get his attention, he turns his head into the pillow and sighs.

Strong fingers stroke through his hair as silence settles between them. After a moment, Bahorel asks, “What about you? I should hope I am not your first. . .”

Jehan raises his head slowly, taking in Bahorel's expectant expression. There is an echo of a smile sitting at the corners of his mouth. Jehan loves that look, loves that Bahorel can be so good-humored and still so rough. He itches to embrace Bahorel, to pull him close and hide under all of his strength and power.

So Jehan does just that.

He nuzzles under Bahorel's chin and soaks in all the heat and support. When he speaks, his words are slightly muffled against Bahorel's neck.

“I have never had another man, but there was a woman once,” he begins. “She had some sort of infatuation with me, and though she was beautiful and kind, I do not think I loved her.” 

Bahorel's hands start to move, running along Jehan's sides and back in soothing circles. There are calluses on his hands that grate roughly against Jehan's softer skin, but they do not irritate. They feel nice. He mumbles into Jehan's hair, “And why is that?”

“I can't explain it,” Jehan sighs. “It did not feel. . . It wasn't _bad_ , but it wasn't good. I felt awful because I could not enjoy it as she had. It felt _wrong_.”

The warm timber of Bahorel's laugh shakes them both and Jehan rises up on an elbow. “What is so funny?” he asks, mildly offended. He is awkwardly pouring his heart out, saying things he'd never dare say to anyone else, and Bahorel is _laughing_.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Bahorel mutters, and surges forward to kiss Jehan's breath away.


	9. Fondness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer dies and their relationship grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this is pretty much 100% filler. It's like Jehan and Bahorel got teleported to a slice of life anime or something.

Things aren't much different in the following weeks. Bahorel makes no attempt to seek Jehan out more often than he previously had, though they do spend more time sneaking off together at the end of the night.

Bahorel is loving and tactile and kind in a way that isn't entirely expected. He has a habit of sneaking in behind Jehan, wrapping an arm around his waist and peppering kisses all along the side of his neck like they've been doing this for years. 

At first, Jehan almost seems to shy away from the affection. He hunches his shoulders and wriggles away with nervous giggles, or bows his head and blushes through a smile when Bahorel admires him. Sometimes he can't even kiss Bahorel without his own grin getting in the way.

Bahorel doesn't push him. He teases often, but it's good-natured. After an awkward week or two, when Jehan's insecurities still sit heavily in his head, he soon grows comfortable. 

One night, he surprises Bahorel with an onslaught of sweet kisses before falling to his knees and turning Bahorel into a shaking mess. He lacks experience, but makes up for it with enthusiasm.

Jehan is a quick learner. He listens for each content noise, watches for each miniscule twitch. He figures out how to make Bahorel come apart under his hands.

He also learns how to make Bahorel smile and laugh. Those lessons are his favorite.

-

After a short while, they fall into a routine that is almost domestic. The first time Bahorel knocks on Jehan's door with a black eye and a shit eating grin, they spend the evening curled up on the settee. Bahorel lies back against Jehan's chest as he playfully mocks the words in a large dusty book laid across his lap. Jehan wipes away a small bit of blood on his brow and smiles into his hair, correcting his Italian pronunciation every once in a while. 

Sometimes Jehan will let Bahorel rant for _hours_ about anything, just so he can watch. He will sit in a chair and scribble out grisly tales to accompany Bahorel's words. Every once in a while he stops to interject his opinion, whether he agrees or not. 

One afternoon, they disagree so radically that they wind up standing nose to nose, hissing hateful words like angry tomcats. Jehan is defiant, refusing to stand down. His anger rises to a crescendo, and just as he feels himself on the edge of screaming, Bahorel grabs his face and kisses him hard.

They stumble and Jehan bites Bahorel's lower lip as a warning, but Bahorel doesn't seem very deterred. Jehan tries to ignore the way his blood is rushing south as he plants his hands on Bahorel's chest and _shoves_.

And then they wind up fighting in Jehan's living room.

In the end, there's some broken glass on the coffee table and two boys sprawled out on the floor giggling.

Bahorel lies under Jehan, panting for breath on the tail end of a fit of laugher. He says something about being a pair of idiots before Jehan clamps a hand over his mouth and starts grinding down onto his lap.

They fight again, but it's a good kind of fighting. They fight for dominance, for pleasure, they fight to see who can make the other succumb first. Bahorel pulls Jehan's hair and Jehan leaves red bite marks all over Bahorel's neck and shoulders. Their words are lost in gasps and whimpers, so they let their hands speak instead.

When they're both spent and exhausted and horribly uncomfortable, they strip away the rest of their clothing and drag each other to Jehan's bed. They curl up under a blanket, mindful of the bruises, and stay there for the rest of the day.

-

When they're not fighting or fucking, they're lazing. They sit around in each other's apartments, drinking and discussing anything from the political climate across the sea to the way the trees and flowers will soon be slain under the cold sword of winter.

Jeahn tries (fails) to teach Bahorel how to play the flute. Bahorel cooks for them, because Jehan is a tragically awful chef. He watches as Bahorel makes food with a kind of reckless nonchalance, throwing together ingredients that should probably be lethal when combined with each other. Everything still manages to taste damn good.

Eggs are his favorite. He says that he makes them like his mother had, and jokes that Jehan will become burly and strong if he eats them.

That makes Jehan wonder one evening, “Do you think me weak?”

“What?” Bahorel looks taken aback, “Do you think _yourself_ weak?”

“No,” Jehan says, “I just wonder if you do.”

Bahorel laughs at that and says, “You are many things, Jean Prouvaire, but weak is not one of them.”

Jehan takes Bahorel's wine bottle and puts it on the floor before crawling up into his lap. “What things _am I_ , then?” he asks, and holds Bahorel's jaw in a tight grip.

“You are _strong_ ,” Bahorel breathes.

“Oh?”

“And brave,” he adds. 

“Is that all?” Jehan tries to smile slyly, but it's kind of goofy and lopsided. Bahorel tries to kiss him, but he pulls back and tightens his grip.

“And a _tease_ ,” Bahorel bites out and Jehan laughs. “But so fucking beautiful _._ ”

“Beautiful like a girl,” Jehan asks, “Like a woman?”

“Beautiful like Jehan,” Bahorel says, then uses those strong hands to pull Jehan in close.

- 

August spins into September, and September spins into October. Jehan has been spending most of his free time either working on schoolwork or trying to meet with Les Amis de l'ABC. Meeting times have been patchy and infrequent since the cold has started creeping across the cobblestones. Students are busy with school and workers are busy with keeping their families fed. They try to find time, but time escapes them.

Jeahn goes to his classes, Bahorel skips his classes, and they see less and less of each other as the wind grows icier and the sky refuses to turn any color that isn't a sad shade of gray. The late summer gave them plenty of time together. Jehan got used to Bahorel almost always being near him, whether they were out somewhere in the city in a crowd of people or alone in an apartment.

He pretends his heart doesn't ache when he lies alone at night, because he knows that Bahorel is somewhere out there loafing or drinking or fighting and perfectly content without Jehan hanging on his arm.

Towards the end of November, Jehan finds himself slipping into a meeting in the Musian after one of his late classes. Most people are huddled around the fireplace, speaking excitedly through the chattering of their teeth. He spends the night catching up with men he hasn't spoken with since the summer heat ran south.

At the end of the night, Jehan bundles up in his scarf and gloves and waves goodbye to his friends. He gets about twelve paces away from the café before the slamming of a door rings through the night air and quick heavy footsteps come heading straight for him. Jehan barely has time to turn around before Bahorel is crushing him in a hug that lifts him off the ground.

“I had not noticed you until you were leaving,” Bahorel says through the shivers that shake his body and the smile that dominates his face.

Jehan clutches Bahorel's shoulders and laughs, fogging the air with his breath. “We have been too far from each other's arms,” he whispers, and Bahorel puts him back down.

“We have,” Bahorel agrees. “It is cold tonight. A good night to have a beautiful boy warm my bed.”

“Bahorel!” Jehan reddens and smacks him halfheartedly, “You should not speak of that where idle ears may hear.”

“No, I should not,” Bahorel says. “Perhaps we should seek out more private whereabouts to continue this discussion.”

“Well then,” Jehan takes his hand, “Lead the way.”

-

The first time Jehan had Bahorel's cock in his mouth, he could only take the head for fear of gagging or using too much teeth or dying from embarrassment. Now, on this chilly November night, he feels a warm pang of triumph as his nose sinks into the coarse hair at the base of Bahorel's cock. He never expected take so much pride his oral sex finesse, but the way Bahorel's stomach muscles contract and twitch with the effort to keep from thrusting up into Jehan's mouth makes him feel like a winner.

The harsh gasps and hoarse moans aren't bad, either. 

Jehan pulls off and takes a deep breath while Bahorel fists his hands in the sheets. They're nice sheets, dark scarlet and far more extravagant than anything Jehan would put on his bed for fear of spilling ink and ruining them. Jehan licks the tip of Bahorel's cock, loving the way his bedfellow tenses and hisses, and makes a promise to himself to see these sheets soiled.

Jehan crawls up Bahorel's body, dropping kisses all along a firm abdomen and torso. He nuzzles the hair covering Bahorel's chest and inhales the thick scent of sweat and sex. It makes him dizzy, makes his hips jerk unconsciously against Bahorel's hip.

He never thought he would hunger for _this_ , for the roughness and the strength, for the way Bahorel's fingers leave sore marks on his hips as he's manhandled onto his back. Bahorel pushes Jehan's legs apart and lines up their cocks, thrusting down like an animal. He's got one of Jehan's legs hitched up over his shoulder as he leans down to suck bruises into a pale neck.

Thank god for scarves and cravats, because those marks are going to be there for a while.

Bahorel moves up and kisses Jehan with an almost chaste tenderness. It's strange when juxtaposed with the writhing of their bodies. He licks Jehan's upper lip like he's asking for permission, and Jehan opens his mouth to let the kiss become dirty and deep.

They break apart and Bahorel's rhythm begins to falter. Grunts and moans tumble over his kiss-swollen lips. His eyes are closed, and his cheeks are a pretty scarlet in the candlelight. Jehan wants to tell him how lovely, how _beautiful_ he looks on the edge of pleasure.

He is afraid to say the words, though, and instead says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Because he does, oh _god_ he does. 

Bahorel gasps and pants out ragged breaths. Jehan starts to move, starts to maneuver him onto his back, and Bahorel goes willingly until Jehan is straddling his stomach and leaning forward so his elbows are resting on either side of Bahorel's head. He starts to move his hips, grinding his ass back against Bahorel's cock.

“I want you to fuck me,” he repeats against Bahorel's lips, “I want to feel you sink into me, feel you take me hard and fast, like a whore, like something to be used.”

“I could never simply use you,” Bahorel strains out, even as his hands roam greedily across Jehan's skin. He squeezes Jehan's ass, stroking a teasing finger across his hole. 

Jehan grunts in frustration. “ _Want it_ ,” he whines, “Want _you_.” 

He rises up onto his knees and reaches behind him to stroke Bahorel's cock where it rests against his ass. He keeps his hips moving in slow, languid rotations as he speaks, “I have read things about this, about men being taken as a woman would. I want to know if it is as good as they say, if you can make me cry out with pleasure, make me _scream_. I want to know how it feels to ha- _ah_ -ave you inside of me, f-fucking me, taking pleasure in my body –”

Bahorel moves his hands to Jehan's hips and throws his head back with a broken cry. Jehan whimpers when he feels ropes of come hit his back, arching downward in an attempt to keep it from sliding off of his skin. He takes a filthy sort of pleasure in the way he's been marked, like Bahorel has staked his claim. When he feels those callused fingers circle his cock, he knows it won't take long for him to spill.

He does, and in doing so marks Bahorel as well.

Jehan collapses on his side. He feels a warm twinge of triumph when he realizes the wetness on his back is probably going to stain the sheets.

Bahorel stretches a bit and kisses Jehan's forehead. He says they should probably get up. Jehan flops dramatically over Bahorel's chest, declaring that he will die if he has to move. Bahorel just scoops him up and carries him into the washroom.

Jehan doesn't have the energy to struggle.  It's far too warm in Bahorel's arms to do much more than go comfortably limp.

- 

Later, when Bahorel is sitting up in bed with a cigarette between his lips and Jehan nestled close at his side, he asks, “Did you really mean all of what you said? About being fucked?” 

Jehan blushes at the bluntness of the question and answers, “I do not know what possessed me to speak so openly of my desires.” 

The corners of Bahorel's mouth twitch and falter as disappointment becomes clear on his face. “I see. Forgive me for –”

“No,” Jehan interrupts him, “My _desires_ , Bahorel, were you listening? I want it. . .” Jehan climbs into Bahorel's lap, waving away the smoke around their heads. Bahorel lowers his cigarette and puts on his _it's time for a serious discussion_ face.

“I have fucked men before,” Bahorel says. “You have to understand that it can hurt, it might not feel as good as you hope –” 

“How will I know if I never try?” Jehan's brows draw together in annoyance.

Bahorel smiles, looking down at Jehan's lips, and pushes forward to kiss him. Jehan hums happily when Bahorel bites his bottom lip softly.

"I love your mouth," Bahorel mutters.

"You are changing the subject."

“You have lips like those of Antinous,” Bahorel says.

“And how do you know what Antinous's lips looked like?”

“I have seen coins,” Bahorel kisses Jehan's neck, “I have read descriptions of his beauty.”

“If I am Antinous, then that makes you Hadrian.”

“Oh, _does_ it now?”

“It does,” Jehan says, and then asks in a lofty teasing tone, “Would you weep for me if I were to die young?”

He means it half in jest, but Bahorel freezes. Jehan is frightened that perhaps he's said something awful, but Bahorel just wraps his arms around Jehan and pulls until they are chest to chest. He kisses up the side of Jehan's face, light and tender. He ghosts over the hair leading up to Jehan's temple, and traces the brow bone with his lips.

“I would not weep,” he says against Jehan's forehead, “I would find anyone, everyone who had ever done you harm. I would tear them apart with my own two hands. I would honor your memory with blood.”

Jehan smiles. “I expect nothing less from you.


	10. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel all but falls off the face of the Earth and Jehan isn't amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize for writing angsty Jehan but oops not sorry. He'll feel better soon, I promise. Thank you guys for your feedback by the way uwu

They say goodbye in November, and soon November ends.

It's normal, not hearing from Bahorel for a week. When two weeks pass, Jehan gets worried. On the third week, Jehan is annoyed.

When he knocks on Bahorel's door and nobody answers, he slips a note in the letter box and hopes Bahorel will actually check his mail for once.

He pushes the fear that Bahorel will never come back to him far away and sets out to find some information.

It takes a little while, mostly thanks to his own anxiety, but he gets his hands on some writing concerning male sexuality.  He reads it, and blushes through every word. It makes him squirm, makes him feel dirty and excited. When he closes his eyes, he feels the ghost of Bahorel's fingers on his skin, teasing him and driving him mad.

Later, when Jehan is lying with his face in a pillow and his hand between his legs, he makes a quick mental note to procure some oil the next time he goes out.

-

The first time he tries it, he is almost too afraid to actually do anything. It feels strange, having a finger inside of him, and uncomfortable. It doesn't really hurt, because he doesn't go far enough to allow it to hurt.

He tries again tomorrow.

And the next day.

On the fourth attempt, he thinks of Bahorel.

That makes a bit of a difference.

When he pictures Bahorel behind him, pushing one thick finger into his entrance, he jerks his hips involuntarily. He forces himself to take more of his slick finger, pushing it as far as he can. His breath becomes labored and unsteady because that _does_ hurt, in a strange way.

It burns, but Jehan likes the feeling.

So he slides another finger in, right next to the first one. He audibly hisses then, because _god_ it burns, but he doesn't hesitate to push back against the intrusion. _Bahorel's fingers are thicker_ , he thinks, _they are thick and rough. And his cock is even bigger, it's sometimes too much for me to take in my mouth, it'll split me in two –_

Jehan starts moving then, thrusting his fingers slowly in and out. His hips roll almost on their own accord, like his body is begging for this. He closes his eyes and sees Bahorel, with his bruised jaw and his teasing grin and his fucking _beautiful_ hands. He sees Bahorel and has to try to add another finger, groaning at the pain but not allowing himself to stop.

It feels like an itch, deep inside of him, that he can't scratch. He needs something bigger, rougher, something to take care of him and fill him up.

_I need Bahorel_ , he thinks. And then aloud, “I _need_ Bahorel.”

He fists his cock, stroking fast and hard. Wetness from the oil is coving the back of his thighs and that really ought to be more unpleasant than it is, but all he can think about is the feel of Bahorel's hands and cock. His fingers don't quit moving and he knows he's going to have an awkward cramp in his wrist, but he can't stop. It still hurts, still burns, but the sensation makes pleasure coil in his gut.

When he comes, he can almost hear Bahorel's warm laughter. It feels like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart. That hurts, because Bahorel is not here, and has not been here for weeks.

Jehan sits up and looks at the mess he has made.

_I am a fool_ , he thinks, _to have fallen in love with one who can so easily leave me._

The rest of the day is spent milling around his room. He tries to write, but his mind keep wandering. He thinks he should go outside and roam Paris until he bumps into Bahorel. He would have to check every tavern, every wineshop, ever damn café, and even then he might not find the bastard. He thinks maybe he should buy Bahorel a gift, since Christmas is days away.

He settles for flopping across his bed and groaning into a pillow. He can't stop thinking about Bahorel. Every single train of thought is derailed by the sound of Bahorel's voice, the memory of Bahorel's smile, the need for Bahorel's embrace.

_He would love that_ , Jehan thinks, _knowing that he can obliterate my ability to think straight without even trying._

- 

It's December 23rd, and the patrons of the Musain are doing some premature celebrating. There are joyful women and happy men and plenty of wine for everyone. Enjolras has a fond look in his eye, even as he watches his friends get shitfaced.

He watches Jehan, too, with a hint of concern. He and Combeferre share words, and then Combeferre is sitting next to Jehan. Jehan dodges his questions as best he can, trying to convince Combeferre that he's just fine, thank you.

But Combeferre is persistent to see the source of Jehan's sadness revealed, and Jehan eventually excuses himself. That's when a slightly inebriated Courfeyrac wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

“He is a poet, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac shouts, “His soul feeds off of sadness!”

Jehan is thankful until Courfeyrac whispers in his ear, “So Jehan, have you taken care of what we spoke of during the summer?”

There isn't enough air in Jehan's lungs, and he's pretty sure he's going to die.

“You chose _now_ of all times to bring that up?”

“Well,” Courfeyrac slurs, “Perhaps my timing seems a bit queer, but your mood makes me wonder if the lack of our favorite brawler of late has set your mind into turmoil.”

“You have no right to speak of that here,” Jehan hisses, and pulls away. He feels agitated and childish and _alone_.

Courfeyrac grabs his hand and gives Jehan a genuinely apologetic look. He leans in and whispers, “I saw him, three days ago. He spoke of you. He said he has not found time to come around lately, and that he misses us. He misses _you_ , Jehan.”

Jehan looks around the room at all of the women and me. He feels an ominous sting in his eyes as he looks away. “I miss him, too,” he says, and gathers up his things to leave. Courfeyrac squeezes his shoulder, but does not force him to stay.

The wind is unforgiving tonight. The tears that he lets escape are warm. They feel like fire against his cold, raw cheeks.


	11. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why go to Christmas Eve Mass when you can just disturb the peace instead?

The temptation to seek out a man to warm his bed is strong. It wouldn't be terribly difficult. He knows the kinds of circles he'd have to travel through to find a willing participant. He is beautiful and lithe, he could find a man who would be more than happy to take him.

But that man wouldn't be Bahorel, and the thought of anyone but Bahorel touching him in such a way repulses him.

 _I should not have brushed my friends off like that,_ Jehan thinks, _I should have stayed with them and enjoyed the night._

Now, lying alone in his bed on Christmas Eve, he feels lonelier than he has all month.

_I took their companionship for granted, all because of the absence of a stupid, lazy, brawler._

_A stupid, lazy, lovely, brave, strong, clever brawler._

_I am so fucked._

Jehan rolls onto his front and tries to disappear into his bedding. That doesn't work, because that never works, and he spends the next hour or so flopping around in his bed just trying to find sleep. He's considering raiding the wine cabinet and getting horribly sloshed when something thumps against his bedroom window.

He rises up onto one elbow to see a droopy wet patch where snow hit the glass. _Street urchins_ , he thinks, _looking for something to do on Christmas Eve._

The next snowball is off it's mark, hitting somewhere a few feet away from the window. The third has ice in it judging by how loud it is when it hits the glass. The third, fourth, and fifth all hit at about the same time, and Jehan wonders just how many children there are and why they are so insistent upon hammering _his_ window.

Jehan stops counting after the sixth thump and crawls out of bed. He goes to the window, just to see what the hell is going on, and nearly gasps out loud.

He does not see children, only childish men.

Courfeyrac notices him first and immediately throws another snowball at the window. There is a girl next to him, someone Jehan doesn't recognize. Joly stands to their left a bit, bundled up tightly. Next to him are Bossuet and Musichetta, who are both grinning up at the window.

Jehan almost doesn't notice Bahorel, who starts running to the front of the building as soon as he catches sight of Jehan.

Less than a minute later, there is a knock on his front door.

Jehan opens the door a crack, not expecting Bahorel to barge in the rest of the way. He bursts into Jehan's home with an excited cry, wrapping his arms around Jehan's middle. Jehan is having none of it, and wriggles free.

“And where the _hell_ have you been?” he spits.

Bahorel stumbles over his words, clearly taken aback, though his smile never completely falls. “I have been all over Paris, and haven't had much time to drop by the Musain. Each time I have, you have been elsewhere. Stopped here, too, but you were always out.”

Jehan is about to speak, about to tear into Bahorel with all his frustration and longing and loneliness at it's peak. Thankfully, Courfeyrac barges in before the shouting can start.

“Jehan! We have been – Wait, were you sleeping?”

“ _Trying_ to sleep,” Jehan says.

“It is not yet midnight and you are already putting yourself to bed?” Courfeyrac almost seems offended. “It is Christmas in an hour, for God's sake, come celebrate with us!”

“He's going to have to put some pants on first,” Bahorel teases, and Jehan blushes harder than he has all month.

“Please?” Courfeyrac pleads, and Jehan marches back into his bedroom to put warm clothing on.

-

The seven of them wind up in a park blanketed with virgin snow. Or at least it _was_ virgin snow, before Bahorel decided to do the deflowering by throwing a handful at Courfeyrac's head. Before long, the two of them are at war.

Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet laugh and cheer from where they're failing at building a snowman. Jehan bonds with Courfeyrac's date and tries to silence the angry kind of affection that rises up in him when he sees Bahorel running through the park.

He and the girl get along well. They mostly talk about Courfeyrac, but when she brings up Bahorel, Jehan mentions their almost-fight earlier. He says he is angry with the man, despite the small smile on his face. She teases him for his smirk, and Bahorel chooses that moment to stuff snow down the back of Jehan's coat.

Jehan shouts, standing up and wiggling his shoulders to dislodge some of the snow. Courfeyrac hugs his girl from behind, laughing into her hair. Bossuet's head is in danger of exploding from laughing so hard. Joly shouts something about getting a cold.

As for Bahorel, well, he looks like he's just kicked a hornets nest and intends to take on every single hornet with his bare hands. Jehan, being the good little hornet he is, immediately hits Bahorel in the face with snow.

And then it is those two who are at war.

They dash around trees and bushes, pelting each other with snowballs. Jehan uses each throw as an outlet for his frustration. He is unrelenting in his assault, and it makes him feel _fantastic_. Soon he's laughing and smiling.

After a short while, they hear church bells toll twelve times for midnight.

“Merry Christmas, boys!” Musichetta shouts to them. They freeze, looking at each other in silence for a moment as the steady sound of bells ringing echoes through Paris.

“I _am_ sorry, you know,” Bahorel says, almost too quiet to hear, “I am sorry that I neglected to find time for you in these past few weeks. I missed you.”

Then he tackles Jehan to the ground, and they resume their battle.

Not long after that, their laughter and shouting attracts attention. Horse's hooves clop along the cobblestone path and a police officer shouts, _What the Hell is going on here?_ Just as Jehan hits Bahorel in the back of the head. 

Their laughing slowly bubbles away. Bahorel steps in front of Jehan and asks, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, officer?” He makes no attempt to conceal the disdain in his voice.

“A woman reported some idiots screaming and hollering, throwing things, being a general disturbance,” the officer dismounts his horse and stands nose to nose with Bahorel. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you monsieur?”

Tension floods the air, and Jehan tugs on one of Bahorel's sleeves in an attempt to get him to stand down. Bahorel looks positively bloodthirsty.

“Apologies, officer,” Courfeyrac says, “We did not know we were being so loud. We were only celebrating the arrival of Christmas day, that is all. We will cease the shouting at once.”

The officer remains standing with his eyes fixed on Bahorel. “And what are a group of young men and women doing out at this time? Shouldn't you be attending a service? Or at home with your families?”

“We are like family, monsieur,” Musichetta chimes in, “And we wish no ill fate on any of God's people tonight. Please, accept our apology and let us bid you goodnight.”

The officer sneers. “I don't like the look in this ones eye,” he spits at Bahorel's feet. “I get another report tonight and I'm taking you all in.”

And then, as an afterthought, “God bless you all. Stay safe.”

He turns and walks back to where his horse stands. Before anyone can stop him, Bahorel scoops up a handful of snow and hits the officer in the back with it.

The officer shouts and turns around, raising his nightstick as if he plans on taking a swing. Courfeyrac grabs his girl and runs. Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta scatter in the opposite direction. Bahorel takes Jehan's hand and pulls him away.

The officer goes after Bahorel and Jehan before remembering his horse. By the time he has mounted the animal, the group has dispersed and blended in with the rest of Paris.

-

They run, squealing and whooping like boys as the bound through the streets. Jehan would be content to run forever, to feel the wind caress his hair, to smell the snow and frost mingling in the night. There's a sudden pressure on his stomach, though, and Bahorel drags him down a side street.

They stop in the shadows, hunched over and gasping for breath.

“You,” Jehan breathes, “Are an absolute _fool_.”

“You love it,” Bahorel murmurs before pushing Jehan against a wall and kissing him hard.

 _Finally_.

Jehan is still a little pissed off, and he shows it by biting down on Bahorel's lip and dragging his fingernails across Bahorel's cold, raw skin. It does nothing but inflame their passion, and soon Bahorel is lifting Jehan against the wall. Jehan wraps a leg around Bahorel's waist to the best of his ability, and Bahorel's hands move to grasp his ass. You know, to make sure he doesn't drop Jehan.

It's when Bahorel starts rocking against Jehan's body that warning bells go off in his head.

“We should go somewhere else,” he moans into Bahorel's neck, “Someone will catch us, someone will _see_. . .”

Bahorel starts to say something stupid when a snowball hits him in the side of the head.

He jerks away from the wall and pulls Jehan possessively to his chest. It's a bit uncomfortable, being crushed in the arms of a pissed off, overly protective brawler. Jehan clings to him until the assailant makes his identity known.

“ _Courfeyrac!_ ”

Indeed, it is Courfeyrac who strolls up to them. He doesn't look particularly amused when he says, “Have the two of you gone mad?”

“Clearly you are the madman, slinking around in the shadows like that,” Bahorel draws Jehan closer. “What happened to your girl?”

“I made sure she got home safely,” Courfeyrac says, “And then came to make sure the two of you were alright.”

“We are _very_ alright,” Bahorel grits out.

“Oh, I can see _that_ ,” Courfeyrac says sardonically, “But what if it was some other fellow and not me who stumbled upon you? Then what?”

“Then I would _end_ him,” Bahorel snarls, and Jehan thumps him on the chest.

“It is okay, Bahorel,” Jehan assures him, “Courfeyrac will think no less of us, nor will he tell others of what he saw this night.” He looks Courfeyrac in the eye then and adds, “Isn't that right?”

“Of course I will not,” Courfeyrac says as if he's appalled that Jehan would ever entertain the idea. “But the two of you _must_ find a more appropriate place for this, before someone who does have a problem comes along.”

Bahorel begins to speak up in protest, but Jehan gives him another warning smack. They stare each other down like wolves about to fight. Both of them tune out Courfeyrac's awkward shuffling and unrestrained groan when Bahorel dips down to kiss Jehan hard on the mouth. 

Courfeyrac heaves a sigh and drags them apart. “I'm very happy for you two,” he says as he shoves them into the street, “But you need to _go home_.”

They look at each other for a moment like they're going to embrace again, right there in the open. Bahorel tips his head down the street, as if silently asking if they should take Courfeyrac's advice. Jehan nods and they're off.

“Happy Christmas, you two!” Courfeyrac shouts from behind them. They turn to wave back at him, and then drag each other home through the wind and the snow.


	12. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Christmas morning, everything hanging over Jehan's head for the last month finally falls down around him. Bahorel is there to help pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a direct continuation of the last chapter. This update took forever because this is stuff that I was debating on cutting out but decided to keep in anyway. I'm still kinda ehhh about this but whatever.

Chapped lips uncomfortable to kiss, but being shoved down to your knees on a hardwood floor is a little bit worse.

Jehan doesn't mind.

Bahorel stands above him, fingers woven into his hair. He runs his hands up and down Bahorel's naked thighs, unable to keep still. He wants to touch every inch of that exposed skin, wants to scratch and knead and grope anywhere his hands can reach.

They're both still pissed off and neither of them really knows why since they're not in the mood for talking it out. For Jehan it's more of a _why didn't you just slip a note under the door?_ kind of situation. As for Bahorel, well it probably has something to do with the officer in the park. _Probably_. It's hard to tell with Bahorel, he's like a bear trap that will snap at the slightest sign of pressure.

The point is, they're wasting no time on tenderness.

Bahorel's hands are in Jehan's hair, tugging and pushing and pulling as he thrusts into Jehan's mouth. It's aggressive, almost violent, but Bahorel keeps making soothing noises and whispering complements through shuddering breaths, _oh Jehan, just like that, you're doing wonderful, you're so perfect you beautiful boy,_ and it doesn't take long for him to come down Jehan's throat.

Bahorel kneels on the floor next to him, lifting his chin and kissing him softly.

“I am glad to see you haven't lost your eagerness to please,” he teases. Jehan just scrambles forward, climbing into his lap and rutting down shamelessly, even as he blushes. He begs through panting breaths for Bahorel to touch him, to show some semblance of mercy, and Bahorel does just that. Forcing Jehan to the floor, he tugs the pants and boots away and sets to work. His hand works over Jehan's cock as his lips roam all over Jehan's hips and stomach.

He whispers filthy things against the soft belly, descriptions of what he wants to do to Jehan. _Want to keep you in my bed all day, fuck you until you can't walk straight, tie you down and leave red marks on your body, all over your lovely skin, have you ride me, hold me down, mark me up with your fingernails, with your teeth –_

Jehan loses himself in Bahorel's particular brand of poetry, falling over the edge with no desire to be caught. But Bahorel is there to catch him regardless, bringing him back to earth with gentle fingers carding through his hair.

Bahorel drags him into the bedroom, and those scarlet sheets look incredibly enticing. Jehan buries his face in that rich cotton, and Bahorel flicks at his ear.

His head darts up like an animal that has been frightened and he asks, “What is it now?”

Bahorel laughs, and it sounds scratchy from sleepiness but pure and happy. “It is Christmas morning, what do you think?”

Dragging a sheet over his head, Jehan mutters, “Most sane individuals celebrate Christmas once the sun has risen in the sky. I suggest we follow their example.”

“Nonsense,” Bahorel says, “Any time is a good time for celebration. I want to give you your gifts now.”

_Gifts_?

Guilt sinks like a stone in Jehan's stomach. He was so caught up in his own melancholy that he never thought to buy anything for Bahorel.

He tries to stop Bahorel, but the man just bounds away to retrieve the gifts like a giddy child. He tosses three crudely wrapped presents into Jehan's lap (is that _wallpaper_?) and sits at the foot of the bed, waiting in excited anticipation.

Jehan awkwardly unwraps the first gift and smiles at the book of empty pages he finds. Of course Bahorel bought him a notebook, everyone buys him notebooks, but the handsome design on the cover has a sort of extravagant flair that practically spells out Bahorel's name. Jehan smiles and rubs his eyes, hoping that Bahorel assumes he is just wiping away tiredness and not tears.

Once he has composed himself, he thanks Bahorel and moves on. The next gift is a pen set, and they're just as beautiful as the notebook. Jehan can't help but ask, “Just how much did this have to cost you?”

Bahorel rolls his eyes, “You do not ask how much a gift costs, Jehan, you say 'thank you' and be done with it.”

So Jehan thanks him, and moves on to the final gift. 

Bahorel draws his legs up and tries to hide his grin behind his knees. He looks a little ridiculous, sitting naked at the foot of his own bed, grinning like a child while Jehan fights with the binding around the last present. When Jehan liberates it from the shackles of bow-tied wallpaper, he understands why Bahorel looks so delighted with himself. 

“Leather trousers. . .” Jehan mutters, and Bahorel chimes in with _doeskin!_

Jehan pulls the pants to his chest and makes an indignant noise as his cheeks flare red. “You expect me to fit in these?” he asks, and Bahorel just laughs.

“Of course,” he says, “You have absolutely lovely legs. It should be a crime to keep them hidden away behind loose trousers –” 

“I am sure it's my _legs_ you are looking at,” Jehan grits out through his blush. Bahorel just winks.

Jehan's mouth screws up in an attempt to keep his smile down as he drags Bahorel away from the end of the bed to kiss him breathless. He pushes Bahorel back into the pillows and they wrestle a bit pathetically in their tiredness.  Eventually they wind up just lying there, laughing against each other's skin.

It's wonderful, but Jehan feels greedy. Like he's taking love but giving none back. He feels like he doesn't deserve this kindness, like he's done nothing to earn the affection he's given. It takes Bahorel's thumb on his cheek for Jehan to realize his laughter has turned to weeping.

He tries to scramble away, but Bahorel pleads with him to _please stay, Jehan, tell me what is wrong, tell me if I have hurt you, if I can help you,_ and Jehan just shakes his head and tries to convince them both that it's nothing, that he's just being silly. Bahorel gives him a particularly firm tug, though, and he collapses against Bahorel's strong shoulder and lets himself cry. He starts speaking without meaning to, saying that he doesn't care if he seems childish, if he comes off as weak, he doesn't give a single fuck, because he feels horrible for being so concerned with his own pointless misery that he neglected to think of his friends when his friends are so lovely to him –

“You are one of the most foolish men I know, Jean Prouvaire.” 

“I am no such thing,” Jehan mummbles.

“You are, you fool.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being a fool and I will,” Bahorel ducks his head down to look at Jehan, and wipes away some of the wetness on his cheeks. “Your face is red with tears, yet still so beautiful.”

Bahorel smiles softly and Jehan half-heartedly tries to shove him away and crawl out of the bed. Bahorel grabs his wrist, perhaps a little too hard, and tugs him closer.

“I am not in the mood for your teasing,” Jehan grumbles, and buries his face in Bahorel's neck in the angriest way he can.

“Then maybe you could tell me what is so wrong,” Bahorel suggests, “Or I will have to tease the answer out of you.”

Jehan lifts his head and furrows his brow at Bahorel. “I neglected to buy you, or anyone else a _single_ thing. Do you know why?”

Bahorel starts to rise up, starts to hush Jehan, starts to try to calm him down. Jehan just shoves him back into the pillows and says, “Because I am _selfish!_ Because I was convinced that you had left me for good because I had grown too attached. Because I wasn't like the other men you took for a night or two, because I was – I was _leeching_ off of you like some unwanted lovesick child. And to think that maybe you didn't care, it br –”

Jehan's breath tumbles over a sob, and he finds himself fighting off tears again.

Bahorel sighs and tugs him back in again, locking his arms around Jehan's middle. “ _Foolish_ ,” he mutters, and Jehan hides his face again.

Bahorel sighs again and lectures Jehan on how the worth of a friendship isn't measured in gifts and presents. Jehan groans and curls up with the hope that he'll disappear entirely as Bahorel's low voice sends him to sleep.

-

When they wake up to the sound of church bells tolling, Jehan still feels guilt hanging heavy on his shoulders. He tries to smile, tries not to bring everyone else down because it's Christmas day goddammit and his friends deserve to be happy.

He is a fool to think he can keep them from cracking his facade, however. They all try to find out what's wrong, try to cheer him up. By the end of the day, he's laughing.

The day after Christmas, Bahorel takes him shopping.

Jehan fights at first, because the point is that he _forgot_. Bahorel is having none of it, though, and all but carries Jehan through the streets. They spend the entire day chasing each other through shops, picking out joke gifts and serious gifts. They spend a ludicrous amount of money, but it's worth it.

Later, after they delivered the gifts and spent some time with their friends, they wind up back in Bahorel's apartment. Jehan stays around long enough to collect his things and kiss Bahorel sweetly on the cheek before taking his leave. Bahorel grabs his hand before he can go.

“We've been apart for nearly a month,” he says, “And you would leave me so quickly?”

Jehan looks back at Bahorel, who is smiling and a little bit scruffy from not shaving a while, yet still looks so much more inviting than the cold walk home. He sighs, and asks, “Why do I feel so rotten lately?”

“A lack of my company,” Bahorel jokes, and Jehan rolls his eyes. “No, I do not know, but I am willing to help if you will let me.”

Jehan lets out a breath, and with it all of his insecurities and anxiety. He dashes forward and wraps his arms around Bahorel in a hug that would have been more of a tackle if Bahorel wasn't so solid. Bahorel just grunts a bit and returns the hug.

“I really missed you,” Jehan mutters. 

“Do you know what I missed?” Bahorel asks. “I missed your words.”

He pets Jehan's hair and pushes him down into an armchair. “Open that fresh notebook,” he says, “Write me something.”

The rest of the night is spent scribbling on the crisp pages. At first it's just Jehan, but it becomes a collaborative effort before long. Bahorel really isn't much of a scribe, but they write satirical stories and crude jokes and silly love poems well into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I had to squeeze something about leather trousers in I HAD TO


	13. Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan decides that it's time for a change.

New Years comes and New Years passes, throwing Paris into 1832 with hardships piling higher and higher and hope becoming easier and easier to slip through everyone's fingers. Meetings in the back room of the Musain increase in frequency with the birth of the New Year, and each public gathering seems more tense than the last. 

Paris feels like a bowstring drawn too tightly. Everybody's taking bets on when she's going to snap.

Jehan tries to find something beautiful in the cracked cobblestone and ashen faces. It's late winter and spring is shaping up to be gorgeous this year, absolutely stunning, yet the condition of the city casts a strange atmosphere of uneasiness across each sun beam and budding flower. Doubt and tension reflects in each drop of dew.

With a sigh, Jehan tries to focus on the thick volume in front of him. He feels heavy, like the humid promise of early springtime is clinging to his skin and weighing him down. He fidgets incessantly, playing with the corners of pages until they're all bent and wrinkled. His feet tap out an anxious rhythm until Courfeyrac playfully steps on his toes from where he sits across the table.

He needs to sever this negative energy, but he doesn't know how. There is an uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck, underneath his long hair. He scratches it absent-mindedly, and winds up balling his hair up in his fists. He leans forward, sicking his nose in the dip of the book's spine. The musty scent is comforting. It makes him think of his studies when he was a young man, sitting under trees with beautiful pink blossoms above his head reading Latin texts.

When he huffs out a breath, a curl on his forehead bounces against his dry, irritated skin. He needs to do something, anything, before he tears his way out of his skin, because that would be unfortunate and messy.

With a groan, Jehan leans back in his chair. His arms dangle limply at his sides and his head tips back so he can count the cracks in the ceiling. Then, in a quiet voice, he asks, “Courfeyrac, do you know of any good barbers?”

-

In the afternoon, Courfeyrac brings Jehan to an older man with long whiskers and neat gray hair. They're taken into a small room with very little furniture, just a few chairs and a table. Jehan is seated in the middle of the room. Two young girls burst in, laughing and chasing each other with brooms.

Courfeyrac grabs the older one around her middle, picking her up and spinning her around as she giggles and squeals excitedly. The smaller one crawls up onto Jehans lap and tugs at a curl.

“Is my papa going to cut your hair off?” she asks.

Jehan smiles. “That is the idea.”

“But not all of it, right?”

“We'll see.”

Courfeyrac stuffs his top hat on her head and pulls her out of Jehan's lap with an exaggerated grunt. The barber gently shoos the girls out of the room and starts working on Jehan's long hair.

The first snip feels like a stab in the gut. Jehan tries to cast his eyes down, but the barber straightens his head each time. The old man and Courfeyrac clearly know each other. They hold a conversation while Jehan tries not to overreact.

_It's just hair,_ he thinks, _It will grow back._

Locks fall like ribbons to the floor and Jehan is left dizzy by how light he feels. When it's over, he pays the barber, tipping generously. Courfeyrac beams warmly and ruffles his short hair.

It's still long enough to thread his fingers through but short enough that it doesn't hang at all. He feels odd, almost nude without his long curls.

Courfeyrac takes him to a bar and gets him drunk enough to calm his nerves.

-

Jehan is having a lovely evening when he suddenly face plants on a brick wall.

“Oof.”

Never mind, it's just Bahorel's back.

“Apologize,” Jehan says into a waistcoat. “ _I_ apologize. I think. But I do not, really. I would like to run into you again.”

Bahorel laughs and turns around, but freezes when he catches sight of Jehan.

“Your hair,” he says flatly.

Jehan blinks a few times in confusion and brightens up when he remembers. “Yes!” he says, and grabs Bahorel's wrists to guide those large hands to the top of his head. “Feel."

Bahorel ruffles Jehan's hair slowly and a smile spreads across his face. “Why did you cut it off?”

“ _I_ did not, another person did, because I needed to have it removed,” he explains. “I was too heavy, I was all clogged up. And now I think I'm better. Do you like it?”

“I like it,” Bahorel says warmly, and Jehan smiles like his body cannot physically contain his joy.

They separate when Jehan gets distracted by something on the other side of the room. Everyone seems obsessed with touching his hair, though that might be because he keeps asking them to. It's nice, all fluffy and soft. Jehan still misses his long hair, but he's starting to think he can work with this.

Everything is going great, until someone jokingly says, “Now the young boy has become a young man! Who would have known that a masculine face could be hiding under that hair.”

It's a drunken jest, but Jehan pouts anyway. “Do you have a problem with my face?”

The man roars with laugher and pinches Jehan's cheek. Jehan jerks back, and it's hard to tell if he's blushing or if the alcohol is warming his skin. He casts his eyes downward as the man starts making more comments born out of intoxicated mirth. He means no harm, but he could at least _try_ to be less of an asshole about it.

Jehan starts walking off in search for more booze, but he smacks into Bahorel's chest before he get get very far. His nose hurts. He's really got to stop doing that.

Bahorel waves his arm at the man, telling him to drop it already. They both get a little defensive then, and Jehan thinks they might fight. Jehan doesn't want _anyone_ to fight, not right now. Bahorel starts to say something with a dangerous edge to his voice, so Jehan flicks the tip of his nose.

Squawking in surprise, Bahorel jerks back and holds onto his nose like he's trying to protect it from another assault. His face is all screwed up in shock and confusion, and the room fills with laughter at the sight. Jehan feels a rush of affection when Bahorel lowers his hand and smiles deviously.

“You little shit,” he mutters, and grabs Jehan's sides. Jehan squeals and wiggles away to hide behind Courfeyrac, who grins and says something along the lines of _worse than children_. Bahorel starts to speak when Jehan pokes his head out from behind Courfeyrac and cuts him off. 

“Do _you_ think I am pretty?” he asks, and Bahorel's face locks hard in shock. Jehan giggles and says, “I think _you_ are pretty. I think everyone is pretty. Well – wait, perhaps not pretty,” he pauses and emerges from behind Courfeyrac to face the rest of the room. “Not pretty, no, but beautiful yes? Yes, everyone in here is _beautiful_ – do not laugh! I mean it. You are, all of you. . .” 

And then Jehan is climbing up on the table, standing a bit wobbly on his drunken legs, lecturing the room about the relationship between delicate and rough beauty. He sways animately as he talks, and about five pairs of hands reach up in case someone needs to catch him. It's unnecessary, though, since Jehan can stand perfectly fine on his own.

Though it doesn't hurt that Feuilly is holding the backs of his ankles. Thank you, Feuilly.

Everyone is looking up at him with smiles on their faces. He points a finger at the man who started this whole mess and playfully berates him for his ignorance. Everyone, even the man, starts laughing as Jehan puts that poet's tongue to use, spinning his words into jokes that leaves the man grinning and looking down in shame.

He apologizes for what he said earlier, and Jehan feels overwhelmingly proud for some reason.

If he could, he'd spend all night speaking on that tabletop. His cheeks are tinged red with excitement and passion as he barrels on through his lecture. Drunk as he may be, Jehan's soul is enflamed with the need to spread knowledge of beauty like a pastor spreading the word of God.  Someone swats at the back of his thighs, though, and Jehan is delighted to see that Bahorel is grinning up at him.

“You have had quite the evening, Jehan,” he says, “But I think someone should get you home before you soliloquize yourself to death.”

“You do not soliloquize to other people, you silly man,” Jehan says, and falls backwards.

He lets himself fall because he knows someone (Bahorel) will catch him. The room erupts in surprised cries, like they suddenly forgot that Jehan might topple over, but everyone scrambles to get their hands in the air before Jehan can meet an untimely demise at the hands of the floorboards.

Many hands catch him, but only one pair of arms wraps around him.

Jehan has to consciously stop himself from moaning when Bahorel whispers something distinctly unsexy in his ear, something along the lines of _what if you had cracked your head open, you foolish boy, and I had to clean up the mess?_

So instead he laughs, because everyone else is laughing and laughing feels nice.

After some confused staggering and a few more hair ruffles for the road, Bahorel announces that he's going to put Jehan to bed. Everyone says their goodnights as Bahorel wraps an arm around Jehan's shoulder and tugs him out of the bar.

Just before they leave, Jehan catches Courfeyrac winking at him from the back of the bar. Jehan mouths a _thank you_ before Bahorel drags him through the front door and into the street.

-

It's mid-afternoon when Jehan finally wakes up. He's still dressed up to his waistcoat and socks, lying in bed with Bahorel's face pressed against his back.

Or at least, he _hopes_ that's Bahorel's face.

He groans and stretches out on his stomach, and the man behind him lazily clings to his back. They grumble something against his neck, and Jehan is relieved to find out that, yes, it's Bahorel.

Relief is short-lived. He feels an awful churning in his stomach, an pounding in his head. He weakly wiggles away and stumbles into his kitchen in search of something to throw up in.

After a few moments of retching into a washbasin, Bahorel staggers over to where he stands and throws himself on the floor behind Jehan. He wraps his arms around the soft stomach and rests his head on the bony back, as if Jehan wasn't busy throwing up all the alcohol he drank last night.

Jehan tips forward to puke again, but this time Bahorel is there to push his bangs off his forehead and make soothing noises against the back of his neck. At least the haircut makes it easier to throw up.

Bahorel is there the entire time, easing him down from his illness. After Jehan thinks he's done being sick, Bahorel opens all of the windows and pulls Jehan out of his dirty clothes and into clean ones. He announces that they're going to go out, because fresh air will do Jehan good. He probably just wants to get away from the smell of vomit. Jehan really can't blame him.

The sky is bright with the promise of springtime, but beauty is deceiving. All through the city, birds peck fruitlessly at the cold ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written partly because I wanted to cram some fluffy happy times in before the shit hits the fan but also because I love short haired Jehan and long haired Jehan and drunk Jehan and passionate Jehan and I just really love Jehan


	14. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend loses something dear to him, and it gets Jehan thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just 90% shamelessly cheesy emotional porn or something I am sorry

Jehan's lying on his back in the middle of the floor with a single flower held to his chest. His eyes are closed and he doesn't bother to open them when Bahorel comes in from outside and says, “You look dead.” 

His eyes remain shut as he sighs. “Gabriel – do you remember Gabriel? The shoemaker? He lost his wife and unborn child last night. Neither of them made it through labor.”

“And your purpose is to imitate death?”

“I only wonder how it must feel to have something you love torn away from you so suddenly,” Jehan replies. “I cannot imagine the magnitude of his grief.”

He's about to say something profound, but stops short when he opens his eyes and takes in the spectacle before him.

“I'm all dirty,” Bahorel says, and is that a _pout_ on his lips?

Jehan gets to his feet with a groan, absent-mindedly tucking the flower behind his ear and walking over to where Bahorel stands. “You are tracking mud _everywhere_ , off with the shoes. And the pants while you're at it and – you know what? Just take everything off.”

Bahorel doesn't even _try_ to mask his glee as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Jehan takes a hard look at his dirty face and groans, “Is that blood? Bahorel, you are _bleeding_.”

“I know.”

They take the time to heat up water for a bath because God knows Bahorel needs it. Jehan asks _what the hell happened_ , but Bahorel won't give him a straight answer. He follows Jehan nude all through the apartment until Jehan makes him sit down on a chair by the bath.

Jehan takes up a cloth and starts to scrub away most of the filth. “It would not do to put you in the bath like this,” he explains, “You would turn the water to sludge.”

When Bahorel is no longer bleeding and the worst of the mud has been rubbed away from his now raw skin, Jehan orders him into the tub. The scrapes on his arms and legs hit the water and he hisses through his teeth. Jehan urges him down with steady hands and soothing noises until most of Bahorel's body is submerged.

“Maybe we should have Joly take a look at you,” Jehan drags a cloth down Bahorel's arm, “Just in case.”

“I would not want to trouble Joly with my petty injuries. He would most likely try to amputate something.”

Jehan smacks the back of Bahorel's head lightly for teasing their friend and says, “Combeferre, then.”

Bahorel hums in the back of his throat. “I prefer your company right now, since I do not think Combeferre would order me out of my clothing so he could bathe me.”

“For that, I am grateful.”

“ _Jehan_ ,” Bahorel grins, “Do I hear a bit of possessiveness in that sweet voice of yours?”

“Hush, you,” Jehan says, and runs the cloth down Bahorel's stomach.

Most of the filth has been washed away and the bathwater doesn't look _too_ unclean. Bahorel cranes his neck around and asks if he should get out so Jehan can bathe while the water is still warm, but Jehan just shakes his head and pulls his pants off.

“The bath is small,” Bahorel says, “Two grown men will not fit.”

“We will if we stay close, now lean forward.”

“Having a naked Jean Prouvaire pressed against me in the bath does not seem conducive to getting clean,” Bahorel teases.

“You are too sore and I am too tired for anything you have in mind,” Jehan urges Bahorel forward with a hand on his shoulder, “Scoot.”

Jehan slides in behind Bahorel with just enough room for his legs to bracket Bahorel's ribs. Bahorel lies back heavily on Jehan's chest with his legs hitched up on the tub so his calves dangle over the sides. His head is low enough to rest comfortably on Jehan's shoulder.

They fall into a sleepy silence. Jehan keeps a hand on the top of Bahorel's head, stroking the damp hair with a soft thumb. Bahorel twists his head up and kisses the underside of Jehan's chin, and Jehan responds like a cat seeking an affectionate touch. He bites his lip and grins, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Bahorel doesn't have to see his face to know that there is something weighing heavily in his mind. “You seem so sad, Jehan. Have I displeased you that much?”

“Forgive me,” Jehan mutters into his hair, “I cannot stop thinking about Gabriel.”

“Ah, it is a sad thing.”

Jehan doesn't say anything, he just wraps his other arm around the front of Bahorel's shoulders, holding him close. Bahorel lets himself deflate in the embrace as he groans contently and sinks back into Jehan's warmth. 

They're both thinking so loudly that neither of them needs to speak, but Jehan has to ask, “Do you think, with things getting worse in the city each day, that there will be another large clashing of arms between the people and the state? Like what happened in 1830?

“Ah, 1830,” Bahorel remembers it well. “Enjolras _has_ been talking about procuring weapons, finally. At this rate, violent conflict seems unavoidable.”

“Violent conflict always seems unavoidable to you,” Jehan points out, and Bahorel barks out a laugh in agreement.

“Would you take up a weapon and fight?” he asks.

“To protect those in need of protecting? Of course I would.”

Bahorel hums like that pleases him. He picks up Jehan's hand, the one curled around his shoulder, and kisses the palm softly. “Perhaps we will fight, perhaps not. Whatever happens, happens.”

-

Jehan is quiet the rest of the day, more so than usual. Bahorel leaves him in the afternoon and finds him again that night in a meeting. Everybody notes Gabriel's absence, but nobody mentions it. A man needs time to himself after such a tragedy, but that doesn't stop his friends from worrying. 

Jehan doesn't speak through the entire meeting. The thoughts in his head drown out the voices in the room, wrapping sadness around him like a cloak. Before the meeting officially closes, Jehan stands up and leaves the room.

He walks to the front of the Musain and rests his head on the cold glass of a window. It slightly alleviates the nauseating ache in his head.

After a while, steady footsteps approach him from behind. Bahorel's hand curls around his shoulder and he could weep at the warmth in it.

“Combeferre said someone ought to check up on you,” he says, softer than Jehan has ever heard him speak. If he could, Jehan would spin around and embrace him, dig his fingers into the strong shoulders, pull him so close that their bodies would be indistinguishable from one another. He would kiss Bahorel in such a way that would bind him to the world of the living, so that Death may never wrest him from Jehan's arms.

But that would be foolish, so Jehan just turns slowly and takes Bahorel's wrist. He pulls them out of the café without speaking a word, and Bahorel doesn't ask any questions.

-

They waste no time when they get to Jehan's apartment. Bahorel looks a little confused when he's led straight to the bedroom, but he doesn't resist. Jehan immediately pushes him down on the side of the bed and crawls into his lap, taking his face in hands and kissing him softly.

Even his kisses are gentle and sad tonight.

Bahorel wraps his arms around Jehan's body, holding him close and providing much needed comfort. It's all so chaste that when Jehan starts moving his hips in slow circles, Bahorel pulls away and gives him a bewildered look.

“What – ”

“Please,” Jehan buries his face in Bahorel's neck and keeps rolling his hips down, “I need to have you near me tonight.”

A large hand runs up between his shoulder blades, teasing along the back of his neck, gripping his hair and gently tugging until Jehan's throat is bared. Bahorel runs his lips across the pale skin stretched over an adams apple, and Jehan shivers in his arms. They share no words, no teasing remarks or shy giggles. The only sounds in the room are Bahorel's mouth moving wetly over Jehan's throat, drawing out high whimpers and breathless gasps.

When Bahorel moves a hand down to squeeze the flesh of Jehan's ass, they pull apart.

“Wait a moment,” Jehan gasps, and drops to the floor. He pulls a box out from under the bed and retrieves a half-empty bottle of oil.

Bahorel shudders where he sits. “Do you want to – ”

“Separate me from the present,” Jehan demands, pushing the bottle into Bahorel's hands, “Make me forget.”

Bahorel doesn't hesitate for a second before dragging Jehan back up into his arms.

They both move with the fervency of men enthralled by something new, something almost forbidden, along with the desire to see their minds washed clean of the grief staining their thoughts like wine. Jehan is out of his clothes before he has the chance to tear at Bahorel's buttons, and Bahorel starts kissing anywhere he can touch. Jehan's chin, his bicep, his sternum, his belly button, his thighs, he kisses ever part of Jehan he can. His mouth doesn't stop moving as Jehan twists and sighs and pulls on his hair. 

Jehan tugs Bahorel back up and they make short work of his clothing. Now, with Bahorel kneeling naked between his spread legs, Jehan feels his entire body blush.

Only once does Bahorel mutter, a _re you sure?_ And when Jehan nods, he gets right to work. Jehan is instantly glad he's spent so many nights getting used to the feeling of something pressing inside of him. Bahorel's fingers are much bigger, much rougher, even with the oil easing their movement. They are slow and careful, but they still make Jehan gasp and wince and curl his toes.

When Jehan is shaking and panting and stretched wider than he's ever been before, Bahorel gently maneuvers him onto his knees, drops a kiss on the back of his neck, and slowly presses his slicked cock inside.

 _Oh_ , now _that's_ different.

It's more filling than the fingers, more exciting. Jehan falls to his elbows and gasps like the air in his lungs has been stolen away. It hurts, it _hurts_ , but he doesn't try to wiggle away or ask Bahorel to stop. He just screws his eyes shut and bites his lip and whines high in the back of his throat.

Bahorel fucks into him slowly, making sure he doesn't push too hard or too fast. One of his arms is wrapped around Jehan's chest, holding him close with a hand splayed across his heart. His mouth is at Jehan's ear, kissing the heated skin and hushing Jehan.

When Bahorel is fully sheathed, he leans back a bit and just _breathes_. His hand moves slowly up and down Jehan's back, trying to calm him down. After collecting himself a bit, he leans forward and asks, “Are you okay?”

It takes a remarkable amount of willpower for Jehan to not collapse right there. Bahorel's voice is hoarse and deep and absolutely _beautiful_.

“I - _yes_ ,” Jehan grunts out. He reaches behind himself, groping blindly for Bahorel's hand, and sighs when he finds it. Bahorel leans over again, shifting his cock a bit inside of Jehan, making him gasp. Their hands are joined where they press into the bedding, Bahorel's on top of Jehan's.

“Are you – Can I move?” Bahorel asks, and Jehan breathes out a “Yes, _please_.”

It's still uncomfortable for Jehan, even as Bahorel restrains himself from thrusting too hard. It would probably be wonderful if there wasn't the still-lingering thought of Gabriel's fate.

The thought that Jehan may loose Bahorel some day. That makes him sad.

And that that sadness hangs over him like a thunderhead.

That is, until Bahorel thrusts a little too hard and immediately mutters, “ _Fuck_ , sorry. I am – you feel, you feel too good.”

_You feel too good._

Jehan is making Bahorel feel good. That makes him happy.

And that happiness makes his heart flutter like wind scattering the clouds.

Jehan reaches underneath himself to run his fingers along his suddenly attentive erection. “How good?” he chances, and Bahorel moans into his hair.

“You have never had more than your fingers, have you?” Bahorel says. “So _tight_.” And then, softly, “Am I hurting you?”

“It is. . . Uncomfortable,” Jehan admits, “But not bad.”

“ _Nnng_ ,” Bahorel moans, “Not good enough.”

He reaches under Jehan and strokes along his stomach. Each shallow thrust leaves Jehan's body rocking forward, his cock bobbing just enough to brush Bahorel's fingers. Bastard still has it in him to tease.

“Want you to feel good,” Bahorel says with a kiss to his shoulder, and Jehan involuntarily bucks his hips backwards. They both gasp, Bahorel in surprise and Jehan at the feeling of being so _full_.

“I am _not_ some delicate thing,” Jehan strains out, “Do not be afraid to be forceful. I can handle it.”

To prove his point, Jehan starts moving back against Bahorel. It's slow at first, because it still feels like he's taking too much. Bahorel digs his fingers, the ones that aren't still threaded with Jehan's, into Jehan's hip like he's trying to hold back. Still, he meets Jehan's shallow thrusts, and soon they work up a steady rhythm.

They keep at it until Jehan can't hold himself upright anymore. He yelps at a particularly hard thrust and his arms fail him, sending him face down in the pillows with Bahorel arching above him. Their hands come apart, finally, and Jehan digs his fingers into the sheets.

He'd be content to stay like that the rest of the night, panting softly each time Bahorel snaps his hips forward. Most of the pain has dissolved into a dull ache, and pleasure flits down his spine after each thrust. Bahorel's hands are wandering, gliding down his sides and stroking through his hair. They're gentle as they pull whimpers and gasps out of Jehan. 

Soon, Bahorel moves them so they're lying on their sides. He rocks into Jehan, holding his hips in place and stroking him off. He whispers in Jehan's ear, dirty things and lovely things. Jehan finds he can do nothing but to reach back behind him, to tangle his fingers in Bahorel's hair, to try not to moan overly loudly. 

A litany of wordless whimpers fall from Jehan's lips when Bahorel's voice wavers and his hips stutter. He bites and kisses all along Jehan's shoulders, Jehan's neck. Jehan twists his torso so he can nudge Bahorel's forehead with his own. Panting with his lips brushing Bahorel's chin, Jehan is suddenly overcome with the feeling of being _had_ , being completely wrapped up another person's body, being taken with the knowledge that he's giving himself over so completely.

He belongs to Bahorel, in body and soul.

That's good, so good, and he bites at Bahorel's bottom lip in ecstatic delight, his shattered whimpers playing off the back of his throat like a love song. They break any bit of Bahorel's self-control, and he surges forward to kiss Jehan hard. His thrusts turn brutal, leaving Jehan crying out against his mouth.

He topples over the edge with a strangled moan against Jehan's neck, leaving Jehan to writhe and gasp in his arms.

After a moment, Bahorel pulls out. Jehan hisses at the feeling and rolls onto his back, lying half on Bahorel's shoulder and arm. There is wetness around his eyes that Bahorel kisses away as he drags his nails down Jehan's stomach to take his cock in hand.

“Let me take care of you?” Bahorel asks. Jehan just looks up at him, wide-eyed and slightly dazed, and nods. 

Bahorel is firm but kind, and it makes Jehan's heart swell. Any remaining sadness is chased away in the wake of pleasure and affection for the rest of the night.

-

For the next day or two (or four), Jehan walks a bit off-kilter due to soreness and a secret sort of sheepishness that lights his cheeks up every time he remembers the way Bahorel felt. His stride is a bit short, because extending his legs too far sometimes sends an awkward jolt up his spine. Courfeyrac asks him what happened, and he makes up a story about slipping on the stairs.

It's a universally known fact that Jehan is _not_ a good liar. He doesn't like lying, and avoids it when he can.  But Courfeyrac humors him with a nod and a sympathetic smile, and also a wink. For the first time in a while, Jehan mourns the loss of his long hair. It was so easy to hide his blush behind the dangling curls.

He regrets nothing, however. About a week later, he manages to rope Bahorel into his bed again, in a happier mood. There is more teasing, more laughing, more exploring, more blushing, more moaning.

It still hurts a bit at first, but Jehan finds himself falling into a kind of pleasure that's different from anything before. It's almost a mixture of the awe-inspired feeling he gets when he finds an undisturbed bird nest hidden away in a bush and the ecstatic rush he gets when he watches Bahorel fight.

It's nice.

-

There is joy, and there is sorrow.

In April, Jehan finds Feuilly sitting outside of the Musain with a hand covering his mouth and a desolate look in his eye. The voices inside the café are frantic and harsh, and a woman stands in one of the windows with tears in her eyes. Jehan immediately feels anxiety gripping his heart.

He rushes up to Feuilly and asks, “My friend, what has happened?”

“I went to check on Gabriel today,” Feuilly replies, voice tight. “He has hanged himself.”

Jehan stops dead and all things flit from his mind. He stands still as a statue, numb to the core. _We should have known,_ he thinks, _we should have done something._

He doesn't voice his thoughts, because there is no point. Instead, he walks slowly to where Feuilly is perched on the stones of the street and sits. He presses into Feuilly's side, providing comfort and seeking comfort all at once.

“We must do something to remedy the ailments of this land,” Jehan mutters, his cheek pressed against Feuilly's shoulder as he slumps in dust of the street. “We _must_.” 

There is a pause where Feuilly drags his hand across his eyes and puts an arm around Jehan's shoulders.

“The time is almost upon us,” he assures Jehan, “We will do all we can.”


	15. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations begin while spring is hotter than it has any right to be, Jehan lets some secrets slip, Bahorel acts like a little shit (but eventually delivers), and the state of Paris shifts from bad to very bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's really no excuse for two chapters in a row with long sex scenes I'm just shameless. 
> 
> Also the semester ends soon and I hope to have this wrapped up by then. Thanks so much to anyone who is enjoying this so far!

“ _Ah_ , springtime rainstorms.” 

Jehan has his head half out the window when Courfeyrac smacks him on the bottom with a pamphlet.

“Help me count ammunition?” he asks, and pulls Jehan away from the soft sound of thunder caressing the sky.

“You must admit, it is lovely,” Jehan says. “The smell of summer approaching in the rain is one of the greatest things about spring.”

Grantaire barks out a laugh. “The smell of mud and shit you mean?”

Jehan shakes his head and says, “The smell of the world being reborn.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes a swig of wine. Courfeyrac and Jehan cram themselves into a small closet full of weapons and ammo to count what they have and decide on how much more they still need.

They both stand silently for a moment, frowning at the shelves.

“It is almost as if our numbers have receded,” Jehan says.

“That's because they have,” Courfeyac responds, and Grantaire stumbles into the closet.

Jehan's brows furrow. “Why would someone steal ammunition from us? To take to another resistance spot perhaps?”

“Such a bright outlook,” Grantaire spits, “But I think the truth is less sunny, for this has happened before. Nihil novi sub sole, we have been robbed once again by those who would call us _brother_.”

Courfeyrac grimaces and scratches the back of his neck. “I am afraid Grantaire may be right. We must put a stop to this.”

Jehan rolls his eyes and looks at Grantaire. “I will have none of your pessimism, now follow me,” he says, “You and I are going to acquire more ammunition while Courfeyrac does his best to sort this out.”

“I am _what_?” Courfeyrac snaps his head up.

“We are _what_?” Grantaire looks like he's having a hard time putting words together.

“You heard me, now get to work.”

Grantaire protests weakly as Jehan pulls him out into the streets, but they get the job done.

-

Bahorel spends less time in the Musain and more time rambling around Paris, keeping other resistance groups up to date and gaining allies out of working men and women. He stops by a few times a week to keep informed.

And to stir shit up.

One saturday afternoon, the men branding themselves revolutionaries spend the day preparing to put their words into action. Everyone is buzzing with the knowledge that this is going to happen, the dam has got to break soon. And when it does, they'll be there.

There is a street fight that day, three men against one, about something absolutely _stupid_. Bahorel loses a tooth over it, one of the back ones.

He yanks it out with a grimace and a wet pop that makes both Jehan and Combeferre flinch and groan aloud. He looks slightly impressed with the molar as he surveys it from different angles.

“First time that's happened,” he announces, and Combeferre sits him down to make sure he hasn't broken anything important. Jehan leans against the wall and watches the way Bahorel's tongue keeps skirting along his bottom lip where a bit of blood is trying to escape.

Jehan silently commends Combeferre for being so close to that tongue without being overcome with the urge to taste.

The rest of the day is spent acquiring the kind of materials one would need for an armed revolt as covertly as possible. They don't want the wrong eyes seeing, not quite yet. Jehan sweats under his jacket and waistcoat all day while other men are down to their shirtsleeves. He itches to roll back the fabric on his arms, but he cannot. It's _hot_ , and his respect for working men is increased with each box that he lugs through doorways and up staircases. Jehan isn't weak, but he's no laborer.

Bahorel is one of the men who has discarded his overclothes. He bites down on a small piece of cloth to stem the bleeding in his mouth, which makes his smile look silly and endearing. His cravat is lost somewhere and his shirt is open low, giving everyone in the streets a view of his neck and collar bones, stopping short just as a bit of hair starts to peek out. A few women brazenly bat their eyelashes at him, and he humors them with sly grins. 

Jealously doesn't pass through Jehan's mind. Months ago he would be overcome with ugly envy at the sight of anyone openly flirting with Bahorel, but today all he feels is _pride_. Bahorel can smile at all the beautiful ladies he wants, but it is Jehan who gets all of the secretive looks, all the warm touches.

Evening falls and the people have to abandon their work until the sun rises again. Some men go home and the rest quickly reach a consensus to cram into the wineshop for a night of drinking. Jehan stays inside for a little while, trying to play coy when he meets Bahorel's burning eyes, but the heat and smoke drive him outside before long.

He wanders, but stays close enough that he can still hear the sounds inside the tavern. He weaves back through tight alleyways and finds himself at a dead end, boxed in by quiet old buildings.  He stops and leans on a rusted gate in front of a sad little vegetable garden behind an apartment building. April is far too early for anything to grow. Maybe it will show signs of life in June.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, taking in the scent of sawdust and dirt until he can feel his lungs burning. He tunes out the noise of the city around him, and nearly screams in surprise when a large hand comes down hard on his ass and _squeezes_. 

He yelps and twists around, effectively locking himself in a pair of strong arms. “Did you just _spank_ me?”

“Give me a kiss,” Bahorel mutters, and noses happily at Jehan's ear.

“What makes you think I want to kiss a toothless old man?” Jehan asks, and Bahorel does his best Angry Pout.

“I am not _that_ old,” he whines, and Jehan falls heavily on his chest to giggle against his exposed neck. Bahorel starts kissing and biting Jehan's ear, and Jehan buries his face in his hands, flushing happily.

“Do not hide your smile,” Bahorel chides. He circle's Jehan's wrists to pry his hands away, but Jehan hisses and recoils at the touch.

Bahorel steps back at once, asking “Have I hurt you, Jehan?”

“No, no,” Jehan rubs his wrists and pauses, “Well, yes.”

Confusion and concern twists Bahorel's features as Jehan almost timidly rolls his sleeves up. Bahorel sucks in a heavy breath through his nose, and Jehan looks to the ground.

There were purple bruises hiding under Jehan's shirt all day long, which is why he didn't roll them up in the sweltering heat. They look dark in the shade of the alleyway, big splotches marring the whiteness of his skin. If one were to look for finger shapes among the marks, they wouldn't be hard to find. Bahorel's darker hands grasp those small pale wrists to gently turn them so he can see the damage in full.

“I did this,” he says, blunt and unhappy. It's not a question. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not want you to worry,” Jehan meets his eyes. His blush has intensified and he feels almost dizzy as he continues, “Because – because I like them.”

Bahorel exhales hard, like the air has been stolen right from his lungs. He pulls Jehan's wrist to his mouth and sucks kisses against the marks, prompting Jehan to sigh happily. Jehan takes Bahorel's other hand and brings it to his hip.

“I have more here,” he says breathlessly, and Bahorel drags him close for a dirty kiss that leaves Jehan dazed and panting. He hardly notices the missing tooth, but the unmistakable taste of blood can't be ignored. Jehan likes that, too.

“I often wonder,” Bahorel mutters against Jehan's lips, “How surprised everyone would be to know that sweet little Jehan is actually so wicked.”

Jehan snaps his teeth at Bahorel in a mock bite and laughs when Bahorel pushes him into the gate and kisses along his neck.

“I do not fit into a mold,” he whispers, “I can be sweet and kind. But _tonight_ , tonight I want to be terrible.”

The metal gate digs into his back, and the sensation is more intoxicating than any alcohol. He would ask Bahorel to fuck him right here against the old rail if he didn't know better.

_Too risky,_ he thinks, though the idea sends a dirty thrill through his body. 

Instead, he shoves Bahorel back and gives him a challenging look. Bahorel just smiles darkly and says, “Your apartment is nearer by.”

-

“Wait, lie on your back.”

Bahorel is about two seconds away from fucking into Jehan like he'd been waiting to do since his cravat got lost somewhere in the mess of boxes and guns earlier. He looks down at Jehan like he's going to die if he doesn't get his cock wet _right now_ , but obediently rolls over when Jehan gives him a bit of a push.

When Jehan straddles his cock, he understands. He sucks in a breath and grips Jehan's hips, right on top of the bruises, and Jehan bites his lip as he lowers himself on Bahorel's cock.

“Oh, _oh_.”

Jehan falls forward to brace his hands on Bahorel's chest. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted back, showing off a neck that's just begging to be marked up. The flush on his cheeks and the noises falling from his lips would tell a tale of timid innocence if it wasn't for the way he grinds his hips down on Bahorel's lap in a manner that's anything but virginal.

Even Bahorel is surprised with how eagerly Jeahn moves above him, pushing down and moaning high in his throat. He moves like water, throwing his entire body in the fluid rolling of his hips. Bahorel takes Jehan's hands in his, holding them up and providing a sturdy anchor for Jehan to cling to as he fucks himself down on Bahorel's cock.

It's so unlike the first time he came to Bahorel's bed, all self-conscious innocence and awkward unsure limbs. Now he revels in the beauty of his partner's body, in the way they move each other like the moon moves the waves. Their hands are strong and sometimes forceful, but happy and warm. One might say he has been corrupted, turned from an honorable young man into a deviant. But that's not true, not at all. He's simply learned to say _I love you_ with his body as well as with his voice.

Bahorel's eyes are shut and his lips are red from being bitten and it's easy to see that he's trying to hold back. Fingernails bite with little gentleness into the back of Jehan's hand, leaving little red indents in the skin.

It's good, but it's not enough. Jehan starts playing up his moans, starts letting out little breathy gasps each time he drops on Bahorel's cock. He puts on his innocent voice, muttering _oh Bahorel_ and begging for _more, please_ in his sweetest tone, trying to coax roughness out of Bahorel.

It works, and Bahorel lets go of Jehan's hands to grasp his hips with a grunt. Jehan is thrown off-balance, planting his hands on either side of Bahorel's head and laughing as he just barely misses hitting Bahorel in the face.

“Do you intend to give me a black eye?” Bahorel teases, moving his hands to grope Jehan's ass. He starts pushing and pulling, taking control of the pace. Bahorel is the full moon, Jehan is the restless ocean.

“Perhaps I do,” Jehan mutters with a grin, “Perhaps I want to fuck like animals, with teeth bared and –”

Bahorel lifts his knees and Jehan topples forward with a surprised yelp. Jehan grits his teeth and arches his back as Bahorel bucks up with his fingers digging into Jehan's hips. They're right on top of the fading purple marks, awakening a delightful ache under the skin. New marks will surely blossom, or so Jehan hopes.

Wrapping an arm around Jehan's middle, Bahorel flips them so he can properly fuck Jehan. Jehan cries out in surprise, and then in pleasure.

Because _goddamn_ , Bahorel knows what he's doing.

Jehan clings to him, raking his nails down his back. He digs in with the intent to leave marks, with the animalistic urge to proclaim to the world that _this is mine_.  There is a bruise coming to life on Bahorel's jaw from the fight earlier, and Jehan bites at it with the possesive desire to see his marks prevail over all others.  Bahorel responds by sucking on Jehan's neck until blood rises to color the skin, by kissing and biting his lips until they're red and wet and bruised and beautiful.

As good as it is, Jehan wants more. He wants to feel his entire body pulsing like a fresh bruise, wants to have to make up excuses to his friends about the marks on his jaw or the hitch in his stride. When he voices his desires, Bahorel just slows his pace and laughs into Jehan's skin.

“I do not want to break you,” he says.

“You will _not_ ,” Jehan grits out, and jerks his hips up.

“My, you _are_ in a mood,” Bahorel mutters, moving with the kind of tenderness that contradicts the bruises on his knuckles, the bloody socket in his mouth. It's sweet, almost disgustingly so, but Jehan doesn't want sweet right now.

“In a mood to be treated as if I am stronger than porcelain, for once.”

Bahorel grins and rolls his hips leisurely, saying, “We have got all evening, you know. I could take you gently _all night long_ –”

“Why do you insist upon tormenting me?” Jehan whines. He writhes impatiently, trying to goad Bahorel into moving faster, harder.

“Because the world is unfair,” Bahorel says with a devious smile, fucking Jehan deep and slow.

And things were going so swimmingly.

There is a lot of begging and whimpering from Jehan's end, and Bahorel seems endlessly amused with how desperate he sounds. Any time he tries to quicken the pace, Bahorel just pins him down. Not with his strength, but with his size. He tells Jehan that giving him the satisfaction of being held down would be no fun at all, and Jehan pulls out insults that would make sailors blush. 

It seems like Bahorel is just going to keep teasing all night, and Jehan is going to grow more and more frustrated until his dick explodes. Which would be really unfortunate. He's impatient and almost angry and when he gets a hand between them to grip Bahorel's jaw. With their lips brushing, he mutters requests that sound more like threats.

Bahorel kisses his bottom lip and taunts him by saying, “What does a polite gentleman say when he wants something?”

So Jehan slaps him across the face.

It's not hard enough to actually hurt, maybe sting a little, but the point is to shock. And shock it does.

Bahorel goes still and gasps, his breath catching somewhere in his throat, making an uncharacteristically delicate sound that goes straight to Jehan's cock. His mouth is agape, and his jaw quivers with each small shuddering breath. Jehan gently turns his head so they're eye to eye again, and kisses the corner of his open mouth.

“You will tell me to stop if it becomes too much?” Bahorel asks, and he still looks a little dazed. 

“I do not think that should be necessary,” Jehan says, “But if it becomes so, I will.”

Bahorel takes a deep breath and pulls away. Jehan doesn't have the time to protest before he's being dragged forward and flipped over.

That's better.

He's roughly pushed face down into the bedding as Bahorel enters him and, _oh_ , that's good. His hips are elevated and a hand is keeping his head down. Bahorel doesn't hold back. Small high whimpers are pushed out of Jehan after each thrust. He feels like he's caged, but not imprisoned. He feels safe and loved and absolutely mad with lust. Pleasure like this was once so unknown to him, and he thinks that there is no way he could possibly rise above it without losing himself entirely. 

Then Bahorel leans over Jehan's body, grabbing his wrists and holding them above his head in a tight grip, and proceeds to _bite down_ on the juncture of Jehan's neck and shoulder.

And Jehan can't help but _scream_.

He screams because it's _too much_ , it's perfect. There are nails scratching his scalp, fisting his short hair; there are fingers digging into the bones of his wrist, sure to leave bruises; there are lips wrapped around a bite mark on his shoulder, sucking pretty red blotches in the pale skin. His voice is wrecked and there are tears welling in his eyes, soaking into the pillow, and it's everything he could have hoped for.

By all accounts he should be repulsed, he should be _terrified_ that someone would be so violent with him. But he trusts Bahorel. _Bahorel_ , who is so strong, so carefree, so prone to aggression over everything and anything, yet so gentle and kind with Jehan. Bahorel, a man who is against to anyone laying a hand on Jehan with violent intent, is doing this because Jehan _asked_ him to.

So Jehan thanks him.

He thanks Bahorel through shaking breaths, all hoarse-voiced and wet-faced. His words catch on sobs and heaving breaths, sounding so broken but so strong, so grateful. He hasn't touched himself since before he was turned over, but he feels like he could come just from Bahorel's hips pounding against him. It's like he's being pulled apart from the inside, like he could unravel each time Bahorel's cock hits that sweet spot deep inside him.

_Thank you_ tumbles past his lips after every gasp, every shout. He imagines death must feel something like this. The deliriously distant pain is a sword in his gut, the hot breath on the back of his neck is the blood leaving his body in waves. It's hard, it's sweet, and it's by Bahorel's hand that he is slain this night. It's the most fucked-out and wrecked he's ever felt before.

It's _fantastic_.

When Bahorel bites his ear, his thank yous die in his throat and he buries his face in the pillow. Bahorel says, “I – I cannot, I am close, Jehan, I _cannot_ –”

The motion of Bahorel's hips speeds up and Jehan all but howls into the pillow, praying in the back of his mind that people in the streets below or adjacent apartments can't hear his desperate wailing. Bahorel sticks his nose in Jehan's hair, mouth still pressed against Jehan's ear, and cries out. It's a noise that's wrung out of him by the pleasure of his release, and it sounds about as wrecked as Jehan feels.

Bahorel grunts and pants a few more times, staying inside Jehan, filling him up. When he's finished, he goes boneless above Jehan for a moment before pulling out and leaning back.

Without the support of Bahorel's body above him, Jehan slides to his stomach and stretches out, rocking his hips slowly against the bed. He can hear Bahorel breathing heavily behind him as he spreads his legs and reaches under himself, skimming across his cock and pushing two fingers deep inside his hole. He gasps at the feeling, at how wet he is with oil and Bahorel's come.

Bahorel crawls forward and gently turns him over, those large hands sliding down his thighs and pulling his legs apart. Jehan rises up onto his elbows and Bahorel looks up at his tear-streaked face. He's stopped crying for the most part and his breathing is shallow but even. Bahorel leans up and kisses him softly, almost chastely, and then moves down to suck him off. 

It's so much gentler than before. Fingers caress the short hair on his thighs instead of squeezing hard enough to leave marks. Bahorel's lips move languidly and not roughly. Jehan's pleasured screams have faded into happy little whimpers and gasps.

For a blow job, it's pretty heartwarming.

Afterwards, when Jehan is boneless and sore and more satisfied than he's ever been in his entire _life_ , Bahorel silently gets off the bed and comes back with a wet cloth. He cleans Jehan up, because there's oil and come everywhere and that's actually kind of disgusting now that their sex drives have been satiated.

When Bahorel's hand moves between his legs, Jehan gasps and arches off the bed a bit, wrapping a hand around Bahorel's wrist and turning red. He bites his lip and looks up through wide eyes, suddenly shy.

“You had no problem when my hand was down here earlier,” he says, and Jehan turns to smile into the pillow.

“It is just –” Jehan's cheeks are practically glowing, “I am still rather – rather _sensitive_.”

Bahorel kisses Jehan's cheek, soft and sweet, and mutters, “I will be gentle.”

He cleans up slowly, making every excuse he can to run his hands along Jehan's body with a reverence that feels like worship. Jehan's head is still lifted into the blissful realm of foolish thoughts, and he can't help but think back on death. Bahorel's hands move across his bruises in loving caresses, and Jehan decides that Bahorel should not be the one to kill him, but the one tend to his aching body in the afterlife. As magnificent as it would be to die by his hands, literally or metaphorically, there is something about Bahorel's moments of tenderness that turn Jehan's heart into a joyful mess.

When he's finished, Bahorel walks off to dispose of the cloth, and Jehan is conscious enough of his surroundings to enjoy the view this time. After, when they're both situated in bed, starting to doze off, Jehan's sleep deprived mouth moves quicker than his sleep deprived brain and he lets something slip.

“You know, I once was convinced that you would grow bored of me,” he admits. “And a day would come when you would cast me aside for another.”

“Well, that was stupid of you,” Bahorel replies casually, and Jehan smacks him in the chest.

“I am serious!”

“As am I.”

“You are so cruel to me,” Jehan complains in jest.

“Mmm, yes,” Bahorel snuggles closer, “Mothers warn their daughters about wretched men like me. You should have known better than to follow me to bed.”

“Oh, spare me that kind of talk,” Jehan smiles fondly, “I am almost too much for _you_ to handle, not the other way around.”

That gets Jehan a kiss square on the forehead. “You really are, my fierce Jehan. And I would have none other in your place.”

-

Jehan nearly has a heart attack when he wakes in an empty bed.

Rolling over, he feels the absence of a warm body next to him. There is no Bahorel here.

He shoots up, immediately worried, but calms when he sees Bahorel's clothing is still scattered across his room. He doubts Bahorel is traversing the city naked.

Stumbling out of bed, Jehan stretches and revels in the burn he feels throughout his body. He gropes around the floor and pulls Bahorel's shirt on to ward off the early morning cold. It's too big, especially in the sleeves, but it's nice. Like being held by Bahorel, even though he isn't here. 

The sitting room is quiet. Smoke hangs high in the air from a lit cigarette Bahorel holds between his fingers as he reads the news in nothing but a pair of trousers. Jehan's bare feet pad almost silently across the floor as he approaches, and Bahorel pulls Jehan into his lap without so much as looking up. With an arm around Jehan's waist and a chin propped on Jehan's shoulder, he continues to read as if there wasn't a fully grown man lounging in his lap.

Jehan wants to isolate this moment, to capture it's essence and distribute it across the city to everyone. It's warm and comfortable and nice and everybody deserves to have someone like Bahorel to hold them close.

And then Bahorel says, “This shirt stinks like death.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of Jehan. “It belongs to you.”

Bahorel's eyebrows shoot up and he says, “That sufficiently explains it.” He glances up at Jehan for a moment and then does a double take as his jaw goes slack. Jehan twists his neck to look down at Bahorel and is instantly confused.

“Have I got something on my chin?” he asks, and rubs at the stubble growing there. Bahorel grins and tosses the newspaper to the floor.

“No,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette and pulling Jehan closer, “But you have got something _here_ ,” a peck under his ear, “And here,” a quick kiss on his neck, “And here,” he pulls Jehan's collar down to kiss part of his shoulder, “And here.”

Jehan squirms happily in his arms. Bahorel tries to tug the shirt the rest of the way off, and Jehan defensively wraps it around his middle with an airy laugh. 

Pulling Jehan back against his chest with strong arms, Bahorel hums and teases, “You were not so timid about your body last night.”

“There is a chill in the air this morning,” Jehan says, grinning a bit bashfully. His cheeks burn from all this smiling, like the way the rest of his body burns with the memory of Bahorel's hands upon him. It's nice.

“It is a good thing,” Bahorel says. “People will not look at you so strangely when you walk about with your collar buttoned up to your chin to hide the bruises some _savage_ laid all over your neck.”

“That savage would be _you_ ,” Jehan says, and Bahorel winks. “Besides, I managed just fine with everything buttoned tightly yesterday.”

“Well, I suppose nobody will look at Jean Prouvaire strangely for dressing poorly in the heat.”

Jehan frowns as best he can. His neck is starting to hurt from the way its twisting, but he doesn't want to stop looking at Bahorel. “Plenty of men dress the same as I do.”

That gets a laugh out of Bahorel. “Plenty of men dress foolishly under the sun, but _nobody_ dresses quite the same as you.”

Another playful scowl twists Jehan's face up. Bahorel throws out a suggestion, “Perhaps you could put on the trousers I bought for you at Christmas?”

Jehan's eyes go wide as Bahorel's hand deliberately slides up his thigh. “I am preparing for an armed revolt,” he says, cheeks red, “Not attempting to solicit another sexual partner!”

A hearty laugh jolts Bahorel's body. “You overreact, they are not some vulgar things. You should take pride in the beauty of your own body. Besides – I so do love the feel of leather stretched across your skin. . .” 

Even after last night, Jehan still manages to look properly scandalized. “Well, on that note – Bahorel, let me go,” he pushes Bahorel's hand away from where it's creeping up between his legs. “I must put on my _dreadful_ clothing and prepare for the day.”

Bahorel playfully tightens his arms around Jehan's middle. “Not so fast, why are you so quick to start the day?”

“Because I am eager to prepare for whatever it is we must do for the the people of this country.”

“Prepare to bloody your hands for out cause, you mean?” Bahorel asks, and it sounds as serious as it does joking.

“Not all of us look forward to the prospect of bloodshed,” Jehan says, and it sounds like an accusation. “But if I must fight in order to protect, than so be it.”

“This is not some bard's tale, Jehan,” Bahorel mutters against his shoulder, “You are not a gallant knight in a suit of gleaming armor.”

“I know that,” Jehan says. “Besides, you would be a more likely knight than I.”

Bahorel snorts. “Me? A knight? Too much honor and chivalry for me. I could not stick to that way of life.”

“But you are honorable and chivalrous,” Jehan tells him, “At least, in your own way.”

“I am going to assume that is a complement. But what would you be then? My beautiful damsel?”

A smile spreads across Jehan's face. “Damsel I may be,” he says, “But I think that in this story, I should be the one to save _you_ , my knight.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Jehan says. He fights his way out of Bahorel's grip and moves until he's straddling the other man's lap.

“You and your hotheadedness would run straight into a trap,” Jehan starts, “And you would find yourself locked far away from me. In a cell in which escape is only possible through a small crack in the wall, but you are hindered by your build and by your armor and you cannot make it through.”

Bahorel grins at him and asks, “So then how would I escape? You cannot have me rot in a cell, that is not a fun story at all.”

“Why, I would save you, of course!”

“And how would you do that?”

Jehan smiles sweetly. “With a blade that shines in the darkness, a rose engraved upon the handle and thorns decorating the steel. I would slay those who would dare take you away from me. . . Storm the castle, so to speak.”

Bahorel chortles and falls forward to press a kiss against Jehan's collar bone. “You are such a _ham_ ,” he teases, but Jehan continues.

“I would cut down whatever stands between us, spilling blood across the castle stones. I would traverse dark corridors with only the light of my sword and the passion to have you once again in my arms to guide me. And then when I find you, bloodied and beaten in your cell, we would embrace.” 

“Happy ending,” Bahorel mutters.

“Not quite yet,” Jehan says, and Bahorel raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “There would be one final beast that we would slay together. Me with my sword, you with your firsts. When it is finished, the monster's body will have blocked the only exit, and we would be trapped.”

“But the hole in the wall!” Bahorel exclaims.

“Exactly! But you will not fit, not until I take up my sword and cut you free from your armor.” Bahorel pouts at that, but Jehan continues. “You make it through the tight space, but I have difficulties. Then I realize, it is my sword! I resolve to leave it behind, next to your armor. We slip away, without any means for defense or offense. But we need neither, as we have slain our foes. We can live in peace now, together.”

Jehan feels like perhaps he has amped up the melodrama just a little too much. Bahorel just makes a thoughtful face before saying, “So the point to this story is that you want to take my clothes off.”

That doesn't deserve a response, so Jehan just rolls his eyes and tries not to blush as Bahorel laughs and moves to softly kiss the bruises on his neck.

And then someone knocks on the door.

Both of them freeze instantly. Bahorel whispers, _it is your apartment, you answer it_ and Jehan and urgently whispers back _I know!_ Another knock sounds through the room and Jehan jumps. Bahorel holds the back of his thighs so he doesn't run off and puts a finger to his lips. _Shhhh_.

“Maybe it's Courfeyrac,” he whispers as Jehan silently moves away from him, “He understands. . . Us.”

“ _Jehan_?” Combeferre's muffled voice asks, “Are you there?”

Jehan brings a fist to his mouth, pushing his knuckles against his lips in distress. “Combeferre cannot know of our affair, at least not now! You must _hide_.”

Bahorel moves towards the bedroom as another knock startles them both, and Jehan clears his throat to shout, “Just a minute!”

He turns to Bahorel, then, and mouthes _pants!_

Bahorel grimaces and points to his neck. Jehan grasps his own neck and curses under his breath. He would need a cravat as well if he hoped to cover the marks, and here he is in nothing but an overly-large unbuttoned shirt. Bahorel puts a finger in the air and disappears into the bedroom, returning quickly to throw a blanket at Jehan just as Combeferre asks, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Jehan wraps the blanket around himself, making sure to cover his neck. Bahorel scurries into the bedroom to quietly hide himself, and Jehan opens the door for Combeferre with trembling fingers.

Combeferre looks confused for a moment. “I have woken you? It is nearly noon.”

Jehan laughs in a high nervous way that makes him sound just a little psychotic and says, “Well, yes, I busied myself well into the night with – with writing, and the hour was late when I finally put myself to bed, and. . .”

It's almost comedic, the way Combeferre's face steadily twists in puzzlement. The prospect of being found out makes Jehan's face burn and his words tremble. He might be sweating. He can't stop talking in a fake-happy, high pitched voice that makes him sound like a socially inept serial killer. He clears his throat, and says, “Er, have you come for any particular reason?”

Combeferre shakes his head as if to right himself and says, “Are you alright my friend? You are unharmed I hope?”

“Oh, I – I am fine,” Jehan assures him. “You need not worry about me, I swear.”

Though he nods his head, Combeferre doesn't look entirely convinced. He doesn't ask any questions, just continues speaking.

“Enjolras is calling an emergency meeting at the Corinthe,” he says. “Lamarque seems to have contracted cholera."

-

Lamarque doesn't get better.

Towards the last days of April, his condition looks life-threatening. There are rallies held almost spontaneously, angry men and women gathering in mobs to demand an answer for the sorry state of the streets and the people inhabiting them. Fear and anger spread like a bacterial infection. If a man like Lamarque wasn't safe from the cholera epidemic, who was?

Paris is a festering wound. Only rebellion may remedy her.


	16. Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan muses on the subject of death just a little too much. Bahorel sets his mind at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I realized that the line between history/book/musical is really blurry and is going to continue to get blurrier until the end of this story (which is coming soon!!) so I hope that doesn't bother anyone too much. Thank you all so much for your feedback as this has progressed! ;u;

There is something attractive about firearms that Jehan can't quite put his finger on. They are terrible things, yes, things that are designed for the horrible deed of robbing a man of his life. But then, Jehan supposes there is something attractive in that as well. Perhaps not attractive, but _magnificent_. Jehan doesn't look at death with fear or revulsion, at least not his own death. It is not an end, but a climax.

To cheat death would be an insult to its glory. Jehan wonders if he will be fearful in the face of death. He wonders if he will die old, from some awful illness, lying in bed with thoughts of all things he never got to do, all the words he never got to write, all the places he never got to see, all the things he never got to learn, plaguing him in his final moments. Will he be bargaining with whatever higher power to spare him a few more years, or will he be accepting of his fate?

He wonders if his friends will be there, wiping the sweat from his brow as he slips into the cold sheath of death. Perhaps he will have a wife and children then, sitting around his bed. Or if maybe, if he's lucky, perhaps there will be a man who he genuinely loves. He wonders if he will be rewarded in life with the privilege to see Bahorel with gray hairs and wrinkles around his eyes.

His hand pauses on the gun he's cleaning. A tightness creeps up his throat and suddenly he's pressing pressing the top of the gun barrel to his mouth in some tight-lipped kiss as he battles the tears that are threatening to fall. He's floored by an emotion that transcends the limits of language when he thinks about that, about his friends in ten, twenty, thirty years. When he thinks about the possibility that they may fall in fighting to come.

Jehan is no fool. He knows as he polishes his sidearm that the tension in the city will increase until there is nothing left to do but strike out and attempt to topple the government. And Jehan will be right there next to the students and workers when the time comes. If he should fall, then so be it. But there will be men beside him, great men, men who are needed in this land, they could fall as well.

Jehan sniffs a bit stiffly and runs his sleeve under his nose. His sidearm shines far more brightly than anything else in his messy apartment, yet he continues to polish it.

-

That evening, everyone wonders where Bahorel is.

The next morning, Courfeyrac and Jehan post his bail.

For the third time in two months.

They make sure to chastise him thoroughly. 

“What happens if we initiate a rebellion while you are locked up for some petty offense?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Why, then I would simply break out to join the fray,” Bahorel answers like it's obvious.

Perhaps it's the heat coupled with the tension hanging over everything like a thick fog, but something about Bahorel's nonchalance irks Jehan. A knock comes on his door as the sun is setting that evening, and Jehan doesn't have time to get up before Bahorel is turning the handle and letting himself in.

That doesn't bother Jehan, though there is an irritated itch at the back of his neck when Bahorel holds up two bottle of wine and says, “Care to celebrate the impending revolt?”

Jehan just gives him a flat look over the book he's reading and says, “ _No_.”

Bahorel's shoulders slump and a look comes over his face like he was expecting that answer. He sits the bottles down and meanders over to where Jehan is occupied with his book with such intensity that he couldn't ignore Bahorel harder if the Earth suddenly split open and swallowed him whole. Bahorel takes a seat on the arm of Jehan's chair, leaning heavily against Jehan's body. He tries to turn Jehan's head but Jehan just jerks away and starts to get up with a huff.

“Now hold on just one moment,” Bahorel sighs, and pulls Jehan back into the chair. Jehan falls back with an irritated sigh and lets Bahorel continue, “What has gotten into you? Each time I caught your eye today, I thought perhaps the venom in your glare would kill me before I had the chance to take up a weapon against the state.”

“You mean before you get the chance to be pierced with a bullet in your recklessness –” he cuts himself off, “No – No, please, do not listen, I am not well.”

Jehan starts to wrestle away, but Bahorel moves to his feet and gets an arm around Jehan's waist before he can get far. Jehan thrashes and groans in protest, but his movements are sluggish and half-hearted.

He doesn't want to fight with Bahorel in their usually way, with clipped words and angry shoves. He wants to sulk by himself and pretend he has the right to be angry about Bahorel's carefree attitude. He wants to carve words of rage and adoration into Bahorel's skin and bathe in the blood left behind (only not really, because that would be needlessly messy). Perhaps diving into a river would be a suitable substitute, as he could cleanse himself of this ugly unhappiness that sticks to him like sludge when he thinks about Bahorel leaving him with a bullet in his breast.

Bahorel is, of course, infuriatingly kind as he stands behind Jehan, pressing a rough cheek into his hair and holding him still as he tries to wriggle away. He breathes slowly and says, “I will not have you in a huff over some veiled annoyance with me, not when the eve of revolution is approaching. You will tell me what is wrong."

For a moment it seems as though Jehan is going to keep fighting. But he doesn't, he just drops his shoulders and sighs. “I have been thinking about death lately,” he says, and Bahorel spins him around.

“Do not think I will allow for that,” Bahorel says with an edge to his voice, “So long as I draw breath, no man will cut you down –” 

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” Jehan takes Bahorel's face in his hands, “I fear not for myself, but for our friends. For the working men and the students who may never take up their tools again. For the innocents who may find themselves caught between us and the government. For _you_. And selfishly, for a life in which I may live while you do not.”

“Oh, _Jehan_ ,” Bahorel mutters, and pushes their foreheads together.

“And I am _angry_ with you,” Jehan continues, “Because sometimes I feel as through, as though you do not take these things seriously. As though – I don't know, I am afraid you will throw yourself away, and I do not want to have to see that –”

“Shh, shh, Jehan,” Bahorel kisses Jehan's brow, “Your mind is running away from you again. I would not be so foolish as to take this event lightly.”

“I _know_ ,” Jehan bows his head, “But I cannot help but be fearful that your boldness may be your downfall in this. . . But do not listen to me, I have full faith in your abilities,” and then, after a short pause, “I apologize. I should not have accused you of not taking this seriously.” 

“If I ever do something to displease you, then speak,” Bahorel says, “I would have you honest with me, always.” 

Jehan goes silent. He thinks of all of their fights, their petty little scuffles. It's easy to become annoyed with Bahorel, but it's also easy to forgive him.

“What was that? Jehan at a loss for words?” Bahorel teases.

“Quiet, you.”

Almost all of the tension is booted out the door and Bahorel smiles into Jehan's hair. “Say we both make it out of this perfectly fine. What will you do then?”

Jehan is quiet for a moment. “I would continue helping people in any way I could. Perhaps write more. Read more as well, maybe do some translations. Grow my hair our again. Perhaps cut it off again, too.”

Bahorel hums. “I do miss your long hair,” he runs a hand through Jehan's hair. “Through I rather like the feel of it short”

“Maybe _you_ could grow your hair out,” Jehan suggests, lifting his head to look up at Bahorel.

“Me?”

“Of course,” Jehan brightens up in an instant, “I could tie it up for you in plaits.” 

“Oh, no,” Bahorel holds his hands up. Jehan gets both hands in Bahorel's thick hair.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he says, grinning like mad. His hands start moving, but they don't get to muss Bahorel's hair nearly enough before Bahorel dips down and scoops Jehan into his arms, bridal style.

Jehan yelps and wraps his arms tightly around Bahorel's neck. “ _Bahorel_! What are you doing?”

“Commencing the celebration!” Bahorel says, and nudges the door to Jehan's bedroom open with his foot.

They celebrate all through the night as the neglected wine bottle collect dust in the fading light.

-

Rays of sunshine warm his cold feet where they stick out from under the blanket. Bahorel's are cold, too, and Jehan runs his toes in slow circles along the tendons and bones. They seem so solid, so sturdy. Were he an artist, Jehan would want to paint those feet. He would want to pain every part of Bahorel. But then, he supposes it would be almost impossible to contain Bahorel within a picture frame. No canvas could hold him for long.

Jehan explores Bahorel's ankles and calves with his feet until their legs are all criss-crossed and Bahorel begins to stir. There is a moment where Bahorel looks stuck between two worlds. He hardly acknowledges Jehan before wriggling forward and sticking his face in the crook of Jehan's neck.

“ _Bahorel_ ,” Jehan complains, “Your nose is cold.”

A warm sound rumbles from somewhere in Bahorel's chest as he sleepily runs the offending nose across Jehan's skin, sluggishly teasing him. There is a small smile playing on his lips, and Jehan kisses it away, rousing Bahorel in the process. He looks bleary-eyed and docile, like a pup waking up from a nap. A massive yawn leaves his moth gaping, and Jehan's chest tightens in affection when the gap between his teeth peeks out.

When his yawn is finished, Bahorel flops gracelessly back to the pillows and all but rolls over on top of Jehan. He stretches and grumbles through the arduous process of waking up, and Jehan tries to keep from getting crushed.

“You are a dog,” Jehan grumbles, though there is affection trailing through his voice. “A dog that does not realize just how large it is, much to the inconvenience of his handler.”

That gets a breathy laugh out of Bahorel. “My handler?” he asks, voice a deep rumble from sleep, “You are more of a kitten. A kitten with claws that _wound_ me to the soul.”

Bahorel lifts his head with a mischievous smile and seeks a kiss. Jehan just lightly shoves his head away and says, “A kitten could not break your nose. Surely I am more of a lion.”

“ _Surely_ ,” Bahorel snorts. Jehan gives his hair a warning tug, but Bahorel just laughs again and playfully scrapes his teeth over the curve of Jehan's shoulder. They fall silent for a little while, with Bahorel lazily plastered to Jehan's side and Jehan carding his fingers through Bahorel's hair. There is the lingering thought that those fingers could be soaked in blood sometime within the week. Jehan feels something like excitement and trepidation all at once.

He glances down to where Bahorel's fingers are absent-mindedly trailing through the soft hair below his belly button. He has seen those beautiful fingers cut and bleeding before, curled into a fist and splayed wide.

“May I ask you something?” Jehan sounds almost uncertain as the words tumble out.

“Of course.”

Without hesitation, “Are you prepared to die?”

“Thank you,” Bahorel groans, “For robbing the atmosphere of any joy.”

“If it is too morbid a topic, you do not have to answer,” Jehan says, “But I am curious.”

“Were I not at peace with the prospect of my own death, I would not be so ready to take to the streets in armed rebellion,” Bahorel assures him. “Besides, are you not the one who told me there is beauty to be found in death? What more beautiful way to fall than in the passion of a fight?”

Jehan smiles, slowly at the sudden lightness in his heart. Perhaps he is just worrying too much, over thinking everything. Bahorel has seen more fighting than Jehan can count, and he's made it out of each one just fine. He will make it out of this just fine, too.

And if he doesn't, well, Bahorel never seemed like the dying old type. Falling in the passion of a fight sounds right down his alley.


	17. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barricades rise, revolutionaries fall.

“I cannot believe this is going to happen.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Of course, I cannot sit still!”

Bahorel smiles from where he's aiming down the signs of a gun. “Are you _excited_?”

“Perhaps,” Jehan smiles, ”Yes.”

That gets a laugh out of Bahorel. “Of course you are,” he says, and walks over to where Jehan is looking out the window. “We all are.”

They're in Bahorel's apartment, making the last preparations before heading off to General Lamarque's funeral. Bahorel plants a kiss on the top of Jehan's head and hands Jehan his sidearm.

“You are rather well dressed for a man preparing to revolt,” Jehan points out.

“Really?” Bahorel asks, eyebrows raised sardonically. “You are not.”

Jehan gives Bahorel a small shove and holsters his weapon in a way that conceals it from view. “If we leave now, we may have time for a quick breakfast.”

“Ah, yes,” Bahorel says in a lofty tone, “Some wine and cheese before we overthrow the state.”

Jehan rolls his eyes, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Bahorel swats him on the bottom with the butt of his rifle and tugs him in for a quick kiss before pulling on his hat and saying that they must get going soon.

“The rebellion has not quite started just yet,” Jehan points out, “You cannot carry a rifle unconcealed through the streets.”

“Watch me,” Bahorel says with a wink, and pulls Jehan out the door.

-

It's madness.

Gunfire cracks through the air, complimenting the sound of furniture hitting the cobblestones. Jehan just barely avoids having an old, thick-wooded vanity fall on his head. Somewhere, tucked away very very far in the back of his mind, there is a a tiny ball of pants-shittingly overwhelming fear. Around it, though, it is a thick cushion of elation and adrenaline.

It's fantastic. 

There are men and women and _children_ out in the streets, throwing whatever they can get their hands on onto a pile that is growing at a rapid rate. Even Grantaire is rushing though the crowd, though he dares not drop his bottle. Jehan can't keep his eyes on any one person for long, since everyone is scrambling like mad to erect the barricade.

Some men stand with rifles aimed at the end of the street, keeping the soldiers back so that there is enough time to build up a good defensive position. The wild commotion echoes through every boulevard and back alley as barricades go up all around the city.

Jehan is about to charge into a wineshop in search for something else to throw on the pile when two large hands grab his ribs from behind. He knows who they belong to even before Bahorel shouts something about toppling a cart in his ear.

It's no easy feat, getting the well-built cart secured on the barricade. When it's done, there are angry red scrapes on the meat of Jehan's palm and a small splinter near his thumb. He doesn't mind the far-off irritating tingle of pain, though he feels awful for the carpenter who's creation they're destroying. But it will be worth it in the end.

They pause for a moment to catch their breath, and Bahorel squeezes Jehan's shoulder with a strong hand. He nods, excitement and aggression lighting up his eyes, and then he is off. Deja vu storms Jehan's senses, and for a moment, and he's back in crowd the first time they met. The first words Bahorel ever said to him ring through Jehan's mind.

_You must stand, my friend,_

Here Jehan will stand.

_You must fight!_

Here Jehan will fight.

-

There is a reprieve in action where there isn't much to do but make sure their defensive position is secure and all of their guns and ammo are accounted for. Jehan passes the time by reciting poems for anyone who will listen.

It surprises no one when he speaks of love. Bahorel sits just below him, Gavroche at his side. Every once in a while, he turns from the child to smack Jehan playfully on the calf, or cranes his neck around after a particularly beautiful line and gives Jehan a quick glance that carries more weight than any words ever could.

After a few verses, someone looks up at them and says, “Come now, poems aren't going to keep the National Guard at bay. We don't look very threatening when we've got a boy prettier than my daughters rattling on about love at the top of our barricade.”

Bahorel smiles, wicked and sharp. “You think the state can cut down Jean Prouvaire so easily just because he is a gentle poet, eh? We'll, I've got a crooked nose that would like to have words with you.”

Cheers go up from some men milling around the bottom of the barricade and Jehan flushes red with embarrassment. Bahorel nudges his knee as if to say, _tell them about it!_ Jehan just swats at his head, and Gavroche giggles in a carefree way that all children should. Jehan smiles broadly at the noise, even as his heart constricts in worry for the child. There is a lot of Bahorel in his twinkling blue eyes, a lot of boldness and strength.

Some time later, Jehan is called to attend some duty. He starts to crawl down the barricade when Bahorel grabs his arm. He freezes, expecting some teasing remark. But there are no words, only the pressure above his elbow and Bahorel's eyes fixed on his. Just as the moment starts to stretch into “suspiciously long eye contact” territory, Bahorel warmly and pointedly says, “You will be fine.”

Jehan smiles and claps his hand over Bahorel's where it rests on his arm, “I can take care of myself, remember?”

“I could never forget,” Bahorel says, giving Jehan a grin that somehow manages to feel private even on the open barricade. He pulls his hand away slowly, those long fingers uncurling and practically caressing Jehan's arm. And then Jehan is crawling down the barricade, crawling away from Bahorel.

It's the last moment they share before the first attack.

-

“ _Jehan_!”

Turning from a box of ammunition, Jehan looks to where Courfeyrac is charging over. His eyes are wide with panic, brightened by the dirt and black powder that stains his cheeks. Jehan runs to him, asking if he is wounded, making sure he is okay.

Courfeyrac swats his hands away and starts tripping over his words. “There was something, a – the barricade was almost taken, as you saw, and, and he acted before _anyone_ else could think to stop him – to _cover_ him, and I – I do not know if he is going to recover, you need to _see_. . .”

Jehan looks back to the box of ammunition, trying his hardest to keep calm and process what Courfeyrac is telling him. “Someone has fallen,” he says, and it's not a question.

Courfeyrac exhales like the wind has been knocked out of him, and pulls Jehan to the other end of the barricade by the wrist. They move quickly, staying out of the way of men who are racing between the barricade and the crates of ammo to push the National Guard back. There are wounded men, screaming men, but no dead men just yet.

And then Jehan catches sight of Joly kneeling next to body with Combeferre on the other side, shouting something about bandages to a man inside one of the buildings. Joly brings his hand up as if to cut off the request, and Combeferre's face freezes in dread. Jehan's stomach lurches and throws himself next to Joly as his legs fail him.

The wound is ugly and deep, like a great red hole. It was made by something sharp, a saber maybe. Or a bayonet. Whoever dealt the blow had powerful arms and almost seemed to twist their weapon to worsen the attack.

Letting his eyes move from the bleeding gash, Jehan feels a sudden coldness creep into his body.

Bahorel's eyes are open, but dim. There is no vigor, no intensity, no passion to be found in the way his face sits in the placidity of death.

Immediately, Jehan regrets. He regrets running to the ammunition as soon as the National Guard came down upon the barricade, so he was not there to help Bahorel. He regrets being slow to load his weapon, so he could not at least watch the moment when Bahorel rushed to keep the soldiers back. He regrets not being able to see Bahorel in the excitement of a fight one last time.

There is a sickening rage twisting Jehan's stomach and his lungs are rattling with each sharp inhale. He is distantly aware of the way Courfeyrac stands behind him, firing at a soldier who has made it to a vantage point on a rooftop. Joly moves away, presumably to help the living.

It is Combeferre who pulls him away from his grief, with a hand cupping his neck. Their foreheads come together above the body between them, and Jehan asks, “What is a fight without Bahorel?”

“I do not know,” Combeferre mutters and pulls away.

Jehan wants to lean down and kiss Bahorel's forehead, but he knows he would shatter into pieces if he did. He wants to scream and cry and mourn and crawl over the barricade to slaughter the droves of soldiers pouring in with his own two hands. He wants blood for blood, he wants dirty ugly _revenge_ , he wants to find the man who did this and cut open his chest, to tear out his heart as he has torn out Jehan's.

Instead, he reaches down and gently pulls Bahorel's eyelids shut. He drags his shaking hand across the strong bones and rough stubble for the last time, and feels in the skin a softness that was always there under the surface. He knew this could happen, and he knew that Bahorel was prepared to die.

“We must all fight harder to make up for this loss,” Jehan says, voice steady. And then, quietly to himself, “And honor his memory with blood.”

He looks back up to Combeferre, eyes sharp and strong. He takes Bahorel's discarded weapon for himself and pulls Combeferre to his feet. They both resume fighting in an instant.

Through it all, Jehan doesn't shed a single tear. He can weep for Bahorel later. For now, there is fighting to be done.

-

Gavroche shows no signs of sadness, not specifically towards Bahorel's passing. Neither does Jehan. They stick together anyway, at least for the time being.

-

His knees hit the cobblestone and the force sends a jolt straight up through his legs. He hardly feels it.

Here on the wrong side, the _wrong fucking side_ of the barricade, Jehan is a prisoner.

Attempting to reason with the soldiers got him a riffle butt to the stomach. There are at least three guns trained upon him, so the chances of escaping are looking pretty bleak. His ears fight over the scuffling and shouting for anything that might give him hope, the sound of Enjolras's voice cutting through the air or some sign of a rescue being staged.

But there is nothing. Jehan is alone.

Despair slices into his belly like the bayonet that robbed Bahorel of life. The soldiers aren't looking too friendly as they eye him with contempt. They want to see his blood spilled upon the stones, just as his friends want to see the barricade soaked with police spy's blood.

A soldier, one of the National Guardsmen who ranks above most of the others, hands a man a carbine and points to Jehan. Jehan recoils, but two men come in behind him to hold him down on his knees. Fear runs his blood cold, freezing him to his core.

In this moment, he has two choices. He can hang his head like a dog and allow these men to make an example of him, to strike him down for rising up.

Or he can lift his head and fight, one last time. In the name of liberty. In the name of love.

Jehan looks up at the sky. Paris is beautiful this time of year. The clouds are scattered lazily and a flock of birds fly overhead, oblivious to the mayhem below them. A perfect day to die.

He choses the latter option.

A soldier points his gun at Jehan and the officer starts spouting something about duty and honor and how they absolutely _have_ to kill him for whatever reason. Jehan choses the moment to throw an elbow behind him, hitting one of the soldiers in the groin and struggling away from the hands holding him in place.

In the back of his mind, he thinks that it's not much different from the time he was assaulted in a bar. Except this time, none of his friends are coming to save him. He's got to pull through this on his own.

The man who was aiming at him suddenly get's all of Jehan's weight hitting him in the legs with enough force to knock him off his feet. The area dissolves into chaos as Jehan tries to get his hands on a riffle – no, a bayonet. That would be perfect.

Predictably, he doesn't last long. Someone bashes the side of his head with the butt of their gun. Jehan falls back to his knees, but immediately looks up. His vision is swimming, but he can see the soldier clearly. He can see the anxiety and fear in the young man's eyes. He can see the gun inches from his own face.

Without hesitating, without trembling or quivering or whimpering, Jehan bellows, “ _Long live France! Long live the future!_ ” 

Not a second after he gets the words out, a bullet tears into his skull. There's no more words, no more clouds, no more fighting, no more protecting, no more Jean Prouvaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still one more chapter so don't give up on me just yet.


	18. Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize because this is the cheesiest ending ever oh my gOD

Just before he dies, Jehan falls into a dream.

He's lying on his back, looking up at the sky. It's a shade of blue that is strong and solid and breathtakingly gorgeous. Jehan decides that he'll just look up at it forever, because it is pleasant and warm and beautiful. But then something even more grand walks in front of the sun.

“Why are you lying in the dirt like that, you silly boy?”

A smile steals its way across Jehan's face, just as tears begin to fall freely from his eyes.

There is a magnificence about Bahorel as he kneels and pulls Jehan up into his arms. Jehan clings out of a need for contact, as if those arms around him are all that's keeping him from dying again and again. He sobs openly against Bahorel's dirty shirt until his tears are all dried up and his breath comes in heaving pants and he doesn't even know why he's crying anymore.

The buildings around them are gray and sad. There are people wandering about, and each one of them looks distressed and lost. They wear torn, powder-stained clothing and bloodied rags. Their skin is pale and lifeless, and Bahorel is the only one with any noticeable warmth to him.

These people are lost souls, martyred and murdered for the country they called home.

Bahorel looks out across the bleakness of the city, holding Jehan close in a protective embrace. He turns to press a kiss into Jehan's hair and says, “Let us tear something down.”

Jehan looks up at him. “And build something back up.”

So they do.

They ransack the insides of shops and houses, pulling everything from rocking chairs to wardrobes into the streets. Bahorel boldly pushes doors down and steals tables right from under people as Jehan follows on his heels and apologizes to whatever zombie they're robbing at the moment.

Nobody tries to stop them as they send cabinets and chairs falling from third story windows into the streets below. Everyone just continues staring with gray eyes and gray skin at nothing at all. Some of these people are familiar, yet their faces are too lax and unfeeling for any real resemblance to register.

Once, while hefting a bedside table through the street, Jehan stops short when he sees a man and a woman huddled over a small child. His throat tightens with the threat of tears, and he finds himself trembling. Something about the unhappy little family fills him with a horrified sort of grief that freezes him where he stands. It takes Bahorel's hand on his arm to pull him out of his head and back to the task of building a barricade.

They start piling things in a fixed spot, arranging furniture in such a way that makes for a stable structure that they can keep stacking higher and higher. They are alone for a long while, until they notice a single man in a threadbare overcoat dragging a small cart over to where they're working. Jehan runs to offer aid, and nearly shouts with joy when he sees more red than gray in the hues of the man's skin.

When he picks up the other end of the cart and raises his head to thank the man, he stops. From the front he can tell that it is the man he saw huddled with the woman and child. With the color restored to his skin, Jehan can see the reddish burns around his neck.

“I thought I would lend a hand,” the man says with a smile, and Jehan's breath catches in his throat.

“Thank you, Gabriel,” he says softly, _happily_ , and the three of them keep building the wall up.

Soon three becomes six, and six becomes twelve, and twelve becomes twenty-four.

It seems like the dead are rising, as if their souls are unfurling in their bodies like a blooming flower urged on by the light of barricade being constructed in front of them. Faces become distinguishable until a name can be pinned on them, and Jehan realizes that he knows many of the men and women in the crowd.

At one point, he catches sight of Feuilly and Bossuet carrying a billiard table. Bossuet drops it when he catches sight of Jehan and Bahorel, and cringes when one of the legs comes down on his foot. Jehan runs up and embraces him, and Bossuet laughs happily before continuing on to the barricade at Feuilly's request.

The crowd grows thicker and the barricade grows higher. Jehan is dragging a couch down the street when Bahorel smacks his arm and points to the far end of the avenue.

There stands three of his friends, blinking in the sunlight as if they had just been born. Courfeyrac and Joly gaze upon the buildings in bewildered astonishment as Combeferre takes their hands and gently guides them until they've bended in with the crowd.

Jehan looks up at Bahorel with the intent to say something, but loses his words when he sees Bahorel staring down at him with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a fondness in his eye that makes Jehan's heart feel like it's going through a wringer. He leans down to kiss Jehan's brow, the corner of Jehan's mouth, and then moves to the other side of the couch to help carry it the rest of the way to the barricade.

Street urchins led by Gavroche weave through the mass of people, handing large flags to the men and women as they heft things up onto the pile of furniture. People have started to climb it now, to build platforms and to wedge flags in whatever small space they can find.

The amount of people flocking to the barricade is almost overwhelming, but there is something about the whole thing that feels slightly off. Jehan realizes what it is when he stumbles upon the bodies of Enjolras and Grantaire lying hand in hand in the dirt.

Bahorel playfully kicks Grantaire's side, urging him awake. Enjolras rises with him, and takes in the scene with a look of wonderment. He stands, still clutching Grantaire's hand, and wordlessly moves to join the cause. Grantaire follows without a question.

Their barricade grows to magnificent heights until it towers joyfully over the grayness of the city. Blues, whites, and reds fly above it like a beacon. People are shouting, singing, laughing, running to climb the massive structure. In front of them lies the city, next to them sits their dearest friends, and behind them stands the people of Paris.

They're all scarred, beaten, bruised, and bloodied, but they sing and shout for hope, for tomorrow. Jehan feels Bahorel next to him the entire time, waving his flag and hollering excitedly at the mess they've made of the streets. Gavroche and his urchins, Gabriel with his wife and child, Enjolras next to Grantaire next to Combeferre and Feuilly and Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet both smiling jovially with flags in hand, young people and elderly people all standing together on the barricade that they have built.  The word is sickly and sad, Jehan knows this.  But he also knows that there will always be people like these ready to fight for it, to heal it.

Bahorel pulls Jehan to his side with one hand and waves his flag with the other. Warmth and reprieve from the life before them, that's what Jehan dreams about into eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to whoever stuck around with this since the beginning! I've never written a multi-chapter fic before, and if we're being honest this wasn't exactly heavy on exciting plot development. This started out more like a collection of headcanons put in chronological order, and I did a dumb thing by sort of blending book canon and musical canon. So bless your heart if you've managed to get this far.
> 
> If you've got any suggestions or constructive criticism about my writing/characterization, I'd love to hear it. Thanks again for reading uwu


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